And One On Shore
by SoloWraith
Summary: Billy thought Miss Ashe was on her way to Carolina where she belonged, so what was she still doing in Nassau and why was he getting involved? With one foot in sea and one on shore, he has to examine how much he is willing to help. Abigail just wants to get home; when a deception throws her off course, she must decide if home is what she thought it was, or if her goal has changed.
1. Brothel

It had been a long few days out on the water—he wasn't even sure how many on this particular excursion, though he usually kept scrupulous track because the men expected him to concern himself with details they couldn't be bothered with. Like the time, and whether or not anyone was properly completing their assigned duties.

So now, in the tavern, with a tankard in front of him the size of his head (not that he'd planned on drinking it all, Carter had cajoled him into coming), Billy reflected that this wasn't a terrible way to pass the first evening back ashore.

There was real food, for one thing. Carter was a newer, younger recruit to their ship and seemed in need of a mentor, so Billy thought it wouldn't hurt to let the others see them having a drink together—maybe they would then step up and do the same.

He remembered, couldn't really forget, how similarly dazed he'd been during his first few months of bonded labor, after the press gangs had come. Carter was a voluntary arrival, but there was still a lot to adjust to. Not the least of which were the hazing rituals.

Billy took a drink now and leaned back in the chair, which was not quite big enough to accommodate his long frame. He could feel his senses starting to slow, indication not only that the liquor was taking effect but that it was close to time he turned in for a few hours of restorative sleep. And yet he felt no particular need to move just yet; the tavern was warm but not overheated, the air relatively pleasant compared with the tightness of below-decks, and at the moment, none of the other patrons were fighting or obnoxiously raucous. But then, it was early in the evening.

Carter was relaying some story or other, earnestly told, and Billy smiled affably, hoping he was at least giving the appearance of paying attention, though his mind had already drifted towards thoughts of the coming day. Someone passed by their table, stopped to nod to Billy and slap Carter a shade too hard across the shoulders, enough that Billy spotted the wince. It was Mullins. Mullins wasn't mean, just rough, like most of them, and subscribed to the philosophy that whatever didn't destroy a man outright was likely to make him more hardy in the long run.

"Oi, Billy, they're looking for you over at the brothel, eh?" Mullins took hold of Carter's drink and helped himself to it, smacking loudly. Carter's shoulders drew together but he didn't object.

"Who is?" Billy squinted up at him, wary of a joke.

But Mullins' face was ingenuous. "Ah, Hobbs and...I dunno. Or what's it about."

Since Hobbs wasn't given to tomfoolery either, Billy considered going to investigate. Though if it was anything of true note, they could have stopped here first; enough people had seen him and Carter eating their dinner that it would have happened by now. He took another swallow of his rum and gazed at Mullins with unhurried steadiness. "Can't be important then."

The older man shrugged. "Mebbe, mebbe not." He threw a genial punch in young Carter's direction that the lad only barely avoided, and sauntered away, calling to one of the barmaids.

Carter's look of wounded anxiety was becoming tiresome, and Billy stood up, leaving some coins to pay for both their meals and drink. He gave the boy a commiserating pat, advised him not to stay too long on his own and left the tavern, stepping into the street. The night air was almost sickly with flower fragrance, even here in the center of town.

Briefly he considered bypassing the brothel altogether and heading to the beach to sleep, but a sense of duty propelled him towards the doors. Though the men often chivvied him to visit the place with them, he never did. He _had_, in the past, it just wasn't something that held particular appeal for a long time, the girls were all so worn and dutiful and it seemed nothing more than tawdry, something that wouldn't wash off afterwards. At least, that's how he might have explained it, had he ever chosen to.

Moreover, it was a distraction from one's duty, which he couldn't help seeing as a negative, even though the others considered such distractions absolutely necessary to life.

He spotted Hobbs in the corner close to the winding staircase, alone at a single table, puffing on a cigar. Billy made his way over, firmly displacing one girl who clutched at his arm with a 'come to me, handsome,' and sidestepping another who still managed to wave a handful of something feathery across his face before he strode past. A third whore ran her hand along his neck as he straddled a chair to face Hobbs and, he turned with mild irritation to wave her off when she smiled at him showing a missing front tooth. He was momentarily torn between disgust and pity.

"Sorry," Hobbs said mildly, reading his expression as Billy looked back across the table at him, and the woman drifted away.

"Why am I here, Hobbs?" he said, almost rhetorically.

Hobbs gestured with his head towards the top of the stairs and the hallway of doors.

"Who's up there?"

"A girl."

"You called me over here to tell me about a girl."

"This _is_ the place for that." Hobbs' face had something of smugness about it. Billy narrowed his eyes. "You know I'm not inter—"

"You will be in this one."

"What's so special about this one?"

"Just wait."

"I'm going to bed, man."

"Just wait, dammit." His crew-mate had a new intensity in his voice now. Then he took another long drag of the cigar and said, "Just sit for a minute, will you?"

Billy ground down on his bottom teeth and looked about the brothel, on the chance there might be some clues, some other familiars whose presence, or combination of preferences, might give him an idea what they were waiting for. He wasn't there often enough to know if the place was quieter or busier than usual, so that was no help. The atmosphere didn't seem unusual. Nobody appeared obviously on edge, except the few men stationed about as not-so-casual assistance in case of trouble. He took in a breath for patience and waited, as requested. Some five minutes passed uneventfully, with no passage of conversation between the two of them. Mrs. Mapleton appeared at the top of the stairs, but presumably she wasn't the girl in which he was supposed to be interested, so Billy merely fiddled with the candle on the table, digging marks into it with his thumbnail until Hobbs murmured, "There."

Moving along the length of the hallway was indeed a figure that caught his notice, though she was partially in shadow with another girl at her side, apparently leading her to a different room.

_Just wait_...He'd seen her before. With abrupt clarity, he knew. He'd thought she was on her way back to Carolina where she belonged. What the hell was she still doing in Nassau?

"There," said Hobbs again, this time with satisfaction.

He was unable to take his eyes off the upper hallway. "You know who she is?"

"No," the other replied, "but you do, don't you?"

_Jesus. _ "Has anyone—been up there?"

"Not since I got here, but I've not been here that long."

"Why didn't you come get me earlier?"

"If I had I wouldn't've been able to say if anyone'd gone up, would I?"

Billy spared him a brief irritated glance, though it was a fair point, and stood up, uncertain what his actual intent was. He just knew that Abigail Ashe didn't belong in the brothel under pretty much any circumstances, and he didn't think that anyone who wanted her out of there would have good intentions toward her either.

"What are you gonna do?" Hobbs inquired.

"Hell if I know, talk to Mapleton maybe." Billy felt for the reassuring knife at his belt, took a secondary scan of their surroundings to see now, with this new information, if anyone seemed especially likely to be more than usually interested in the brothel's newer denizens—but no one else appeared to be taking notice of the upper hallway. Which didn't mean they _weren't_.

Trying to look casual (always a bit of a challenge considering his physical presence) he meandered over to the stairs, then took them up, one at a time, unhurried.

Mrs. Mapleton—a perpetually calm, unflappable personage—watched him approach with no concern. He gave her a smile he hoped didn't seem too interested and felt it come out rather tight.

"Looking for a partner, are you?"

"Uh..." For a moment he was wordless. She smiled at his confusion. "We don't see you in here, do we, girls?" She was addressing the two who had stopped, in the shadows, behind her. "Bones, isn't it?"

He accorded that with a nod of his head. "I'd like to talk to her."

The madam's eyebrow elevated. "Talk."

"I'm not here for—I can pay."

"As you would, of course, even for talking." She smiled more deeply, amused, and then looked over her shoulder at the girls, at the dark-haired one. Miss Ashe. Billy could sense her fear even from where he stood; it radiated from her like a cornered animal, though her face was relatively composed.

He wasn't sure what the hell he was doing. Was aware, too, of eyes on him from below.

"Though I must say, I am not at all sure you can afford this one," the madam said, her amusement blending with something more serious, something more sinister.

"How much?" he said, not liking to say the words so bluntly. Not with her right there.

Mrs. Mapleton promptly named a sum that was, for a moment, a shock. Until he realized that was the idea. It was supposed to make him re-think all of this. To make him slink back down the stairs perhaps to face the mockery of those who figured it out.

He wondered if there wasn't something in her expression, though, that was worth gambling on. She knew who he was, but she didn't really know him.

"Done," he said, "but for that, I get the night."

"Well!" she said, giving herself a dramatic wave with the fan she carried. And smiled again and added, "In advance."

Thank fuck he had some, not all of it—who would carry that much around at one time? He gave her what he had and told her to see Hobbs for the rest, knowing that Hobbs would cover him one way or the other, might be a bit of scrambling before he and the others figured out how to get it together but Mapleton would have her balance before the night was gone. And she knew it too, because she nodded to the other wench who let him and Miss Ashe into one of the rooms, closing the door with a purposely audible giggle upon departing.

He stood against the door anyway for a while even after hearing her shoes go, in case she doubled back or Mapleton herself was coming by for a listen, keeping his gaze firmly focused on the opposite wall though he could hear the girl's rapid sob-like breathing from the center of the room.

When he was certain there was no one obviously spying on them from outside, he looked over and her and said, "Sorry about the...money," knowing that could not adequately encompass his level of discomfort with having offered to buy her services for the night.

Only a few feet away, she swallowed, and he saw the tears building in her eyes, and took in the state of her clothing, what looked like little more than one layer of nightgown—fully covered, to be sure, but hardly decent to be seen in—and he felt a stab of unexpected concern.

It seemed really important to confirm whether she had or had not been visited by anyone since however long she'd been in the dubious clutches of Mrs. Mapleton, but he didn't know how to ask that without further incurring those tears, so for a bit longer he just stood and stared, and that didn't seem terribly helpful.

He realized, then, that he was not anybody she knew, much less could trust.

"My name's Billy Bones," he said, plainly. "You probably never saw me, but I know who you are. Miss Ashe."

Her head lifted a little, her mouth parted. "Did my father send you?" she breathed.

"No," he said, confused, and then wished for an instant it were true, because that moment of hope, brief as a flame-flicker, died in her face again. "I'm not from—your home. Sorry. I knew you were captured by Low's crew. Then we heard you were on your way back. What happened?"

She was silent, and then he took a step forward, because it seemed like she wavered on her feet and he thought she might faint, but as soon as he moved, she flinched backward like a sprung trap. Chagrined, he stopped.

"I'm afraid you must think me feeble-minded," she said, her voice trembling, "but I don't quite remember. My eyes were covered much of the time...and I'm not certain, what I did see, if they are memories, or dreams."

"All right," he said, trying to sound soothing. "It's all right. You've probably—been through a lot."

She nodded like a child, taking in shaky breaths.

"Here," he said, reaching out a hand, for she still looked as if an errant breeze would bring her to the ground. "You should sit down."

He didn't want to bring her to the bed, that seemed awkward, but a quick glance revealed an embroidered chair nearby to which she allowed him to help her. Then he brought her the quilt, offering it with some diffidence. She probably wasn't cold, but the thin garment was inadequate for a lady.

"Thank you," she whispered, wrapping it around herself, but not relaxing into the chair. She was staring up at him, still acutely, palpably afraid, and it emphasized the difference in their positions even more starkly, so he sat down on the end of the bed because there was no where else to sit.

There was untouched bread and some other edibles on a platter at a side table, so at least they were feeding her. They'd be fools not to, considering whatever price they'd paid to acquire her—or whatever consequences awaited from those if she'd been stolen away.

"If you are not a friend of my father's," she said, glancing down, "then why did you—why did you pay, so much?" She lifted her eyes to his and even from where he sat he could read the suspicion in them.

"I'm not interested in your body, Miss Ashe," he said. More sharply than he meant to. She blinked rapidly. "It's just you don't belong here. I had to do something. Whatever trouble I've brought upon myself by stepping in tonight, I figure I can deal with. Could you have dealt with what would've happened to you if I hadn't?"

That was too much, he knew as soon as he said it—especially since he didn't know, yet, the extent to which she'd been preyed upon. Color deepened in her cheeks and two tears chased each other down them.

_You're being kind of an ass, Bones,_ he told himself. He took a breath and decided to start again. The men looked up to him, depended on him to be practical, to find solutions in the face of problems. That was what he needed to do now. Trouble was, this emotional component was distracting as hell. He didn't think she was trying to make him feel sorry for her, but if she was, it was working.

"Look, I can help. I can get a message to someone, anywhere on the island. There's got to be somebody who can—"

"I neither know nor trust anyone here," she said, with resolve.

He pointed a finger towards his own chest and raised his eyebrows.

"You have given me no choice. You could do anything with me. You say you want to help, that you would not defile my...my person..."

The barrage of 'you's made him slightly dizzy. He was not used to being challenged in such a manner, not by such a fragile but surprisingly vocal opponent.

"...But I am in your hands now. To harm or help as you will, as you claim to offer. Then you must make _good_ on your offer."

"I—" He drew out the single syllable as long as he could, trying to decide what words were going to come next. "I...only, Miss Ashe, I only intended to cover this night, beyond that I don't know what help you think I can provide."

"Then you are a coward, Mr. Bones."

"Billy. Please." He winced almost more at the Mr. than at the coward. He appreciated the small defiance of her chin as she'd said it, though.

"Listen. I'm sorry you find yourself here. This is no place for you. Maybe one of the landowner families inland could—I could set up the connection, probably." He rubbed a hand along his bristly jaw, tired, trying to think. "But even just getting you out there..."

"I need you to get me home," she said, softly. So softly he could have pretended he didn't hear it. Could've stood up and walked out the door, right then. Let her think him a coward, it didn't matter.

"Home," he repeated. "_Carolina_?"

"My father will pay. He will pay any expenses you incur, and more," she said quickly.

"After—" he gestured at the door "—after that you think I'm worried about the money?"

She dropped her head, the tilt to her chin lost now. "You are...one of...them."

"_Them_."

She wouldn't meet his eyes.

"You can say what you think I am."

"One of the many pirates of Nassau," she ventured.

"When did they bring you to this place?"

"I don't know...A few days ago..?"

It'd be a miracle if she'd remained untouched or perhaps Mrs. Mapleton had been saving her for someone in particular, someone who could pay what she wanted. Billy leaned forward and put his forearms on his knees, waiting until she looked at him again. Then he said tersely, "I don't want your father's money. I'm helping you because I don't see anyone else stepping up. But if you—" he shook his head and laughed without humor, "if you think that getting you home is something I can make happen, I don't know what to tell you. It's not possible."

"You look like a person who can make things possible."

"I thought you thought I was a coward."

She brought hands to her cheeks. "I didn't mean that. I _need_ your help. Please. My father is powerful, he can...He might be able to..."

"Seems like he can't do a lot from where he is and where you are."

Abigail Ashe bit her lip. And again he told himself to stop tormenting her, at the moment she could be nothing other than well aware of how powerless she was. Where could he bring her, if he could get her out? He had men enough to help, he was even relatively sure they could disarm the guards without too much trouble, but it was the step after that he couldn't figure. She wasn't safe here, she wouldn't be safe anywhere. Short of a cave whose entrance he himself guarded.

Maybe that wasn't a bad idea.

It was a _terrible_ idea. Ladies did not belong in caves. They belonged in pristine drawing rooms with a dog at their feet and a warm fire in the background. At least that was how he was picturing where she ought to be. Under the father's aegis, keeping her safe from—well, from men like him, most probably.

He took a moment to reflect on the irony of that.

"I'll be honest, Miss Ashe," he said eventually. "I don't know what to do with you."

She pulled the blanket more tightly around her shoulders and said nothing for a short time. They listened to the uncomfortable sounds of sexual commerce in the adjoining rooms until he was about to say something, anything, even if only an inane observation on the state of the weather when she spoke up again. "I need to go home. If you insist you cannot take me, then I must attempt some kind of escape on my own."

"That's not a good idea," he said. "Even if you climb out that back window—" he crossed to the shuttered window, out of curiosity, and looked down at the growing darkness (it seemed doable, assuming someone wasn't waiting directly below) "—You won't get far before someone who knows you or doesn't know you gets in the way. And I'm not sure which is less ideal."

Abigail turned in her chair to look at the window too. "If I try," she said, her voice unsteady, "you would stop me?"

"Aye, I'd stop you," he agreed, hoping she had no intention of testing him.

"Then I am still a prisoner. And you yet another captor."

"Only for your own safety."

"Which you will not guarantee come the morning."

He was silenced by this as she wasn't wrong. Finally he said, "I'm still trying to work that part out."

She rose to her feet, letting the blanket fall, and he eyed her as she moved slowly to stand alongside him at the window, an arms' reach away. She crossed her arms over her chest. This close, and by the light of the lit candles, he could see the perfect quality of her milk-pale skin underneath its thin layer of grime, and what appeared to be a bruise on her forehead.

He put out a hand, very slow, to indicate it.

"I did that myself," she said, soft, meeting his eyes gamely. "I couldn't see most of the time."

He thought about some of the things he'd endured since being pressed into service—even since joining a pirate crew and leaving all of that behind. Having his sight obscured by a blindfold or a hood was surely one of the less pleasant things, worse than being temporary deafness by cannon-blast, worse than ropes wearing through the skin of one's wrists or one of many other torments. The power of imagination was torment enough.

He dispelled those thoughts and focused on her. "I'm sorry all of that happened to you." _Sorry for what men like me did_. _ My people. Us. Them._

"If you are, truly, then help me get out of here," she whispered, glancing to the window.

Madness, they were safest here for the moment, but now that he'd considered the possibility, was looking into her pleading eyes, it didn't seem like such an insane concession. Out the window and down would be easy enough. He closed his own eyes briefly. He was _tired_. He wanted little more than a couple of hours' sleep on that bed and then take some time to formulate an actual plan.

But this girl needed him. And not only that, but he'd completely put himself in her path to make that the case. So who was the mad one here?

"Look," he said, feeling himself giving in. "If I do that, you have to trust me."

"Yes," she said, too eagerly, her eyes sparking hope again.

"I mean it. You have to do whatever I tell you. Whenever. I tell you."

For a moment she hesitated, and he lifted his shoulders and turned his palms up.

Finally she nodded.

"Promise," he said. "Say the words."

"I..I will do as you say."

He exhaled. He crossed to the door, had a listen next to it for a few moments, then opened it a crack. Noise continued outside, and from below, but no one was in the hallway. Pity these doors couldn't be bolted from the inside, but that was how it was. He couldn't hope their absence would go unnoticed the whole night—even an hour or two would be a gift. He extinguished the candles, and they watched by the window for a space in darkness. Abigail tried once to lean forward, but he swept her behind him, really just to see if she'd resist, but the implied reprimand went unchallenged. He felt the softness of some part of her body against the back of his elbow, and brought his arm forward again, giving her more space.

The alley seemed deserted, but they wouldn't know for sure until they got down there. Billy retrieved the blanket Abigail had cast off, bundled it up and tossed it through the window to the ground below, and they waited some more.

"You eaten anything lately?" he asked her.

"I have had no stomach for it," she murmured.

It could be hours before he could ensure that she got food again, but there was no point in forcing the issue. He did go to the table, pour her an entire glass of water and told her to drink the whole thing, with which she complied.

And then it was time to move, much as his brain was telling him to get some sleep and think all of this through a little more.

He climbed out the window first, while she lingered anxiously watching him. It was a steep drop to the ground below, but he lowered himself by his fingertips, which given his height cut most of the drop considerably, and then let go, landing as noiselessly as manageable. The cobblestones were uneven and he was lucky not to come on them wrong and twist an ankle. Which was what she might do if he wasn't there to catch her. He gestured upwards. Her face was paler than ever, and for a few moments when she didn't move from the window he thought she'd lost her resolve. But then she put her legs through the opening, sitting on the sill, and slid forward.

It was an awkward way to have to catch her, and though she was slight, breaking her fall took both of them to the ground. He grunted, but not loud, and grateful she hadn't screamed, only made a terrified exhalation of breath as their bodies connected.

He pulled her up from the ground, scooped up the nearby blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. Not that the outdoor air was cold, but her white gown was like a flame in the darkness. She gathered it to her neck with one hand, and he told hold of her other, enveloping her small fingers in his. For just a few counts they looked at each other, mutually absorbing the inevitability of whatever lay ahead.

Then they moved.

It wasn't running exactly, there was too much stopping in the shadows of buildings and slinking by anywhere more brightly lit, cutting and turning, taking the least direct way to Billy's destination—the caves, by way of the beach—but they did have to move fast, and he pulled her along behind him setting a pace that was probably quite uncomfortable for her to match. Once away from the town lanterns, he found a safe place among the beach trees for them to pause and take stock, ensure they weren't being followed by any but the most skilled pursuer, which was likely still an option.

But before Abigail's breathing had hardly slowed, he set out again, urging her along wordlessly with a tug of his hand. She made no objection, and she hardly could—this had been her idea, he told himself whenever he felt a pinch of concern for the pace he was establishing. But then she made a tiny stifled cry as they were crossing over a section of black rock, the waves in the cove a distant roar, and he turned and looked for the first time down at her feet. She was wearing little more than slippers, soaked and disintegrating.

He reached back and gave her his other arm, pulling her over the last section of weed-slick rocks that he'd already covered, to a secure footing right beside him. "Got a ways to go still," he said, steadying her. "Going to make it?"

She nodded, but she was shaking. He hoped she was stronger than she felt, all soft flesh and no substance. _Could carry her if I have to_. He scanned the beach and the blurry lantern light in the distance again, but no sign of pursuit. Yet.

They continued on.

The cave to which he chose to bring her was not the largest, or the most intuitive choice. It boasted a narrow passageway and an unfriendly slope downwards. The darkness swallowed them moments after their bodies blocked the dim light at the entrance, and he heard Abigail's breath catch in fear. He didn't much like going in without a torch himself, but at least he knew the way enough to manage. Her cold fingers in his hand were clutching so tightly her nails were digging into his palm— had he fewer callouses, it would have been painful. "I can't see," she said, giving voice to the obvious.

"I know where we're going," he told her, stopping himself in time from adding a reminder to trust him.

There was the ledge, off to the left, about the size of a small ship's deck, and it was here, once he felt his way to it, that he stopped and reached behind him for Abigail. "Just gonna lift you up," he said, shaking off her hand and finding her hips. Her own arms shot out against his chest, whether to brace herself or to push him away it was hard to know, and he muttered, "It's all right," into the darkness between them, into her panic-stricken space. He swung her up to the ledge, and then quickly, calmly described out loud the amount of space behind her, as she found her balance, her hand snaking out to find his again.

"Are you leaving me here?" Abigail's voice was hollow, frightened.

"I have to. People to talk to. I might not be back right away."

She clung to his hand.

"Listen," he said. She wasn't going to like this part. "The water comes in. Don't get down from the ledge. Do you hear me?"

"I cannot swim!"

"Right, so, stay where you are. It'll get close, but it won't come up all the way."

There was silence, just their breathing, and the damp cool air of the rock around them.

He didn't know why, but he moved his hands up then, to her face, feeling the clammy skin of her cheeks. Her hand still twisted in his. "Stay until I come back," he ordered.

He had to pry her fingers from his, but he felt her head moving in assent.

Billy found the wall and followed it back out to the entrance, allowing himself now to race through a quick mental list of all the things he needed to accomplish in this briefest possible allotment of time. Find Hobbs, first of all. Determine from there whether the alert had been raised. Determine what, if anything, the street knew. Find _clothes_ for the girl, boots, some supplies.

Find out if getting her off this island was even a possibility with the urgency that his kidnapping of her necessitated. And then, after all of that, he could worry about whether or not he had a job to return to, or if there was a price on his own head for removing a valuable source of income from the brothel.

One step at a time, the way he always solved problems.


	2. Nassau

In the dark, again.

Abigail willed her breathing to slow.

This, at least, was a prison of her own choosing. Well, _he_ had chosen it, to be sure, but better here, than awaiting an assault in a velvet bed—coming, she assumed, from whoever could bring the most money to bear. Or perhaps just based on the whims of that evil landlady. Who had not dealt her any harm, but whose intent certainly wasn't to guarantee her safety.

Perhaps this pirate's wasn't, either, a tiny voice argued. This might be a new hell, for all she knew. Some kind of exquisite torture. Perhaps he meant to leave her to drown in the darkness. Perhaps she would never see anything, again, just as when there had been rags over her eyes, hoods stifling her breathing.

But she forced herself to reconsider, to examine the circumstances of the past hour. He would not have gone to such trouble. At any moment he could have tossed her aside, thrown her into the water. And even when he'd spoken sharply, there had been, the whole time, hadn't there?—a deference in his eyes. Though he'd seemed as tall and terrible as any of them, coming up the stairs with a purpose, she'd never seen a moment of complete disregard in his expression, in his voice.

And after, even his hands hadn't lingered where they shouldn't—when he had caught her, while they were traversing the streets, when he'd lifted her up to this ledge.

There had been, true, that moment when he had taken her face in his hands—that hadn't been necessary and it had truly startled her, but it had also immediately been grounding—a reminder that all of it was real, even though she couldn't see any of it. _Until I come back_, he'd said.

Her heart still pounded irrationally, spurred by the dark, the silence, bringing her back to that place aboard ship, where she'd never known what was around her, near her, except what smell and touch would bring. She hadn't dared to move, and she hardly dared now. What horrors might she encounter in the recesses of a dark, often waterlogged cave? The ledge seemed dry underneath her, and he'd described its approximate size and shape, but she held herself in a rigid coil, gripping the blanket to her chest. Her feet ached in the damp confines of the torn slippers, her back protested at the hardness of the rock.

_Just breathe_, she told herself. _Breathe through each moment_.

And time passed, with no ability to mark it. It passed, agonizingly slow. As it had done for her for weeks now, for however long it had been since she had last seen the walls of her father's house.

Eventually, she felt into an uneasy, uncomfortable sleep, sideways on the rock, feet pulled up to her chest.

And then sound intruded, disturbing her. A slow susurrus, seeping in. She struggled upright and listened, fear building again, as water began to enter the cave. Terrifying in its steady trickle. The sound seemed louder as the water began to collect somewhere beneath her. She crawled on her stomach to the edge of the ledge and dangled her arm into the emptiness below. It was a long time, so that when the first smooth roll of water touched her fingertips, she let out a tiny murmur of fright, feeling its swell, as it passed over her knuckles. Echoes of sound, all around. She tried to envision how deep it would be. Billy had lifted her what had seemed like at least two-thirds of her own body's height; if she climbed or slipped down, she would surely be submerged, with no footing on the slick rock bottom. But he had promised it would not come this high.

The water rose past her extended elbow. She imagined something floating or being dragged in with it, touching her hand, and the fear made her pull her arm out. She rested her face against her other arm and tried to picture something, anything, pleasant. Curtains against a windowpane, a cup of steaming tea, being lost in the pages of a book. Those things, those memories, seemed so very far and inaccessible, even in her mind.

If only there were some light to watch the water by, now. Even the smallest of candles. She prayed he would bring light with him, when he came. If—_when_ he came. Surely he could not come until the passageway was clear, and she had no earthly idea of how long that might take.

It was endless, and when she dared feel for the water level again, it had at some point reached its peak and seemed to be subsiding. She sent up a silent prayer of gratitude for that.

Once more, later on, she drifted into uneven slumber, from which she slipped in and out, in and out, over a period of indeterminable time.

Shadows on the rock wall, was she imagining them? Was it part of the dream? Light was coming from somewhere, leaping, flashing. She watched it through dull eyelids. Then sat upright, hearing muffled splashing. Someone was coming.

He came into view, a torch held high aloft, his face just familiar enough to keep her from a scream that would have done no good had he been anyone else. The light scattered across the walls, the remaining water in the passage, as he moved it forward to see her better.

He swung bags off his shoulders to dry ground, then took a moment to wedge the bright torch into a pyramid of rocks, so it burned upright. Abigail watched, fascinated, unable to drag her light-starved eyes from its dancing colors. She scooted forwards, putting her hands out to the flame.

"Cold?" he asked.

She shook her head. It was only to feel something other than damp rock. He hauled himself up alongside her and let out a long sigh, rotating his shoulders. Timidly, she moved back a little. The ledge, now that she could see, was adequate to give them both plenty of room but his visible presence now seemed overwhelming.

"Get any sleep?" he asked, over his shoulder.

"A little. Did you?"

"Didn't have time. I will now." He rummaged in one of the bags he'd had over his shoulder and then, almost diffidently, turned and held out some things to her. She took them, wonderingly. A dress of some kind. Crumpled boots. Even stockings! She felt herself blush as she held them up to the light just to determine what they were. He looked away again and muttered something about hoping everything worked.

Even if they didn't, Abigail was caught between immense gratitude and palpable embarrassment. Since his back was still to her, she peeled off her wet footwear and put on the stockings, wiggling her toes at the comfort of having something dry, regardless of whence it came. Likewise, the boots were not new, and a shade too large, but felt so much safer than nothing. She held her breath pulling the dress over top of her head, but once it settled around her, it gave adequate protection over the thin shift. She inhaled the scent of the wooden chest the dress might have been stored in, and she felt tears come to her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered.

He made a sound of acknowledgement that was a little more mannered than a grunt—not by far, but she suspected he was as uncomfortable as she was in that moment. And probably far more tired, if he had not yet slept this night—this day, whatever it was.

He pulled some fabric under his head and stretched out on the rock, between the torch and her. She watched him, so grateful to be able to see the outline of his body, his broad shoulders rising and setting as his breath evened. And almost immediately he appeared to go to sleep. She stared for a while in wonder. She scooted closer, dared even to peer over him at his face, at the lines in his forehead that had smoothed away, free of concern. Then, she carefully brought her blanket over and draped it over his body, with the lightest possible of touches.

She could not sleep after that, but she didn't mind so much. It was enough to sit up against the cave wall, to see everything around them, to be properly clothed and fully dry. Perhaps it was this comfort that made it seem not very long at all before he woke, turned and looked at her, looked at the blanket with which she'd covered him, then stretched to a sitting position.

The torch was burning low, and he produced several replacements and lit a second, before handing her a waterbag and some food, bread and a chunk of meat. He didn't ask if she was hungry and she obediently ate and drank.

"We'll move out when it gets dark," he said. "In a few hours."

"Where will we go next?" she asked, hesitatingly.

"I made some arrangements," he said, which did not seem like an answer. "So...it was hard doing, but I found a merchant ship that'll let us come with them to the coast."

Her heart spiked eagerly, and she leaned forward.

He ran a hand over his face. "They don't leave for a few days. And there's some conditions."

"Of course there will be payment, once I am..."

"Up front works better over here," he said, a little dryly. "We've handled it."

"You have friends helping," Abigail wondered.

He lifted a shoulder. "Crew-mates."

"How lucky. I thought—" She fell silent, unwilling to voice what she'd thought, and took a quick sip of water.

"What'd you think?"

"I suppose..." She couldn't give him much other than honesty at this current moment, and it would seem he had earned it. "I thought you all only looked out for yourselves."

"Well, I guess you can be grateful that's not how it is. I wouldn't have taken you out of there tonight if there weren't people I could count on, people to go back to for help."

"I am grateful," she murmured, chastened.

His face seemed to relax a little, soften. "You should sleep if you can. We've got a hike ahead of us later. Think you can manage?"

She looked at her boots. "Now that I have these, I hope to do better."

"Good."

"I am used to more activity," Abigail said, feeling somewhat defensive, though his tone hadn't obviously implied anything in particular. "It is only my recent circumstances that have prevented me...I'll be glad to move about again."

He squinted at her for a moment, seemed about to speak, then closed his mouth.

Perhaps she had spoken too haughtily. "What?" she encouraged.

"Has anything—did anyone do anything to you?"

The question hung in the space between them for a few counts. Longer. Abigail took a steadying breath, uncertain what to say. Much had been done to her, it seemed. Much had been _taken_. Her sense of safety. Her comfort with the dark. Her optimism that people were basically well-meaning, that _men_ were basically well-meaning.

But she couldn't say all that. Say any of it. Not to a man. Not to one she was trusting with her current safety but hardly knew.

When after a few more moments she still couldn't find her voice, he said, looking down and then back at her again, "I suppose I don't have a right to ask that."

And he didn't, it was the place of a father, or a brother, or someone different but equally dear, someone her mind hadn't formed a picture of yet, maybe never would.

"Then why did you?" she whispered.

The silence stretched again.

Billy shifted from a sitting position to a crouching one, breathing some life into the wilting torch. "I guess it matters."

"Whatever has happened," she said, striving to keep a steady voice, "has happened to _me_. I must try—to make sense of it on my own."

"How can that be?" He rested forearms on his knees, balancing, and met her gaze again, illuminated by the brighter torchlight.

"What do you mean?"

"You must have people there. Friends..." he hesitated. "Family."

"There is no one with whom I could speak of such things about." The irony that she was saying this to him (again, a near stranger) was not lost on her.

And yet it didn't seem so strange, with rock walls protecting them from the rest of the world, with only a warm circle of torchlight proof that they were there at all, no one else to hear or give witness. And when there was something in his eyes when he said the word family, like he knew what the word meant, but didn't really know at all.

"You said your father would give anything to have you back," he said.

"And that was true—my physical being." Abigail drew up her knees and rearranged her dress over them, picking at its folds, shuffling her feet underneath. "But if that had been compromised, I do not know that he would treat me the same."

"Then he's not a good father." Billy spoke with some vehemence and it surprised her, and ignited a flash of defensiveness. Merely because she had shared that uncertainty didn't give him the right to criticize.

"You don't even know him."

"I've never met him, aye. Don't know that I'd want to, either."

This gave her pause, momentarily—making her consider the logistics of him getting her home, without any interaction between him and the governor of the colony to which they were supposed to be heading. Probably she ought to say something placatory. But there was still some pique in her and what she ended up saying was, "If you wished him to be tolerant of you, perhaps you might need to extend him the same courtesy."

"Neither of us need tolerate the other. I can return you, he can pay me and I can be on my way," he said, throwing it out in a challenging manner.

"I suppose that is true, when you put it so."

"That is what you want," he questioned. "You want to go back to him. That's what you wanted."

"He's my _father_."

"Who loves and misses you."

This conversation was becoming confusing. "..Y..yes."

Billy rose abruptly. "Should be dark enough now," he said, even though the few hours he had earlier referenced had certainly not passed yet. "We can get going. Unless you want to sleep."

"No," she said, scrambling also to her feet, putting fists against the small of her aching back. "I'm ready."

He gathered the things he'd brought, took the torch, slipped over the ledge to the bottom. The shine of the torch on the surface revealed there was still water, though only ankle-deep. He held out an arm for her. She wanted to turn her back to him and slide down over the rock as he had, which should have been possible now that she could see, but it was more of a drop for her and she wasn't at all sure it could be managed without falling, and then he would just have to pick her up out of the water anyway. So she took his arm and slid forward, and he swung her down.

The sun was very low on the horizon as they left the cave, and the sky a fantastic sweep of color where it met the ocean. She stopped on the rocks to stare for a moment before he urged her on. They were climbing higher on the rocks towards a slight slope, the trees scrubby with having borne the force of the south winds. The wind blew Abigail's dress about her ankles, but it wasn't cold, just cool and refreshing after the dank tightness of the cave.

Billy had doused and disposed of the torches, and as the sun fell further, Abigail was grateful to see the appearance of a partial moon, allowing her to follow in Billy's footsteps without needing his hand to guide her. He tossed glances over his shoulder at regular intervals, but otherwise let her make her own way, and she was glad her footwear allowed her to keep up better this night.

When they gained the top of the slope, they paused to look down over the length of beach, and at the lights in the harbor and town, now far away. Around them, lush vegetation, dark bushes bearing flowers that still showed up like flags by the moonlight. The air was rich and thick and salty. Abigail inhaled deeply, filling and emptying her lungs. However New Providence's denizens had treated her since her arrival, the land itself was beautiful, compelling, compared to (what little she'd seen, admittedly) of the blander Carolina landscape. Under different circumstances, she would have been enthralled, wanted time to explore these new shores. Now, of course, she could think of little other than being restored to properly colonized land—although nothing, she was beginning to realize, was quite as simple as it had seemed only a day ago.

And why was that, exactly, she wondered as she focused on Billy's back ahead of her, as they moved through the night. Perhaps because he did appear to be hearing her, to be taking her wishes into account instead of imposing himself as just another dominant. He was so many worlds away from being a gentleman, but he had been offering his arm like one; he rejected all that society stood for, but he sought help from his friends; he was a marauder, probably a murderer like the rest of them—but he asked her questions no one had ever cared to ask her before.

And his eyes, at moments, told a story she wanted to know a little about the beginning of.

They stopped at points to rest through the night. Abigail's feet began to ache, but she did not speak a word of it. It would be churlish, when she was so glad at least they were covered. She drank when he offered water and ate when he suggested food, though neither appealed. At the last break they took she was slow to get up and he said that it was not much longer now; that gave her the strength to push on.

She didn't know what she expected to see when Billy said, "Over there," and gestured to a low structure in the shadows, set back against a cliff. Certainly it was nothing inhabited. They drew closer and she could see it was an abandoned shelter, less than a house, more than a shed.

The door was stuck and Billy had to exert a shoulder against it before it would move. She followed him in, hugging her arms to her sides. Something skittered off outside, a bird or other small animal possibly.

Billy materialized with a rickety chair, propped it against the wall for her and said, "I'll get a fire going."

"What if someone sees?"

"We're well back and beyond. Not near the roads at all."

The space, she could see once there were flames in the tiny dilapidated fireplace, was just one square room relatively decayed. The roof had fallen open at one end, revealing branches and moonlight beyond. The floorboards creaked dangerously any time Billy moved. Beyond a stool and some dubious shelving with some dusty stores, the room was empty.

Still, it was cheering to have a fire, and some comfort to have walls even such as these around. She didn't mind even the decaying roof, when it lessened her feeling of being imprisoned.

"It's not much," Billy admitted, catching her looking around as he glanced back from tending the fire.

"Did anyone live here?"

He shrugged. "A long time ago? Me and some of the men know about it for a hideout. They bury things nearby sometimes."

"Things?"

"Anything we take off prizes we might not be able to unload right away. Valuables there's no place for."

"Stolen goods," she clarified.

"Forfeited goods," he amended, not seeming irked.

"It seems strange to bury it."

He poked the fire with a rusted iron. "What would you do with something you had nowhere to keep?"

"It just seems so...primitive."

"Primitive," he repeated, looking back at her again. "As in...animals?"

She felt her face warm. "I didn't use that word."

"But did you mean it?"

"I...I just think it's unfortunate if you don't have a place to call your own."

"Ships don't belong to us," he said. "We work on them. We don't have homes. If that makes us primitive, then I guess we are."

Abigail let that sit for a while, then asked timidly, "Do you _want_ a home?"

"You'd have to ask them."

"But...you."

"We _came_ from homes, most of us," he said, standing abruptly. "Don't really think anyone's born into this life."

"But if you can't go back—" she sensed she was treading into potentially problematic territory with such personal questions, but it was terribly interesting—"to your first homes, you could, don't you think, make a new home. A new_ life_."

He put the iron down by the fireside, looked at her, and back at the fire. "Wouldn't know where to start," he said, his voice soft.

She took a breath. "I suppose you would have to give up piracy."

"And do what?"

He said it with no derision, but as an entirely calm inquiry, and she did not know how to answer. What could a reformed pirate do? Surely some gainful employment, some way of turning's one life away from crime and towards honest labor, had to exist.

Perhaps her father would have some insight. Of course, recent events were going to endear him even less to the lawless men of the sea, but perhaps, if he met one in particular who was different, who perhaps yet could be set straight, saved from the threat of hanging...

She would have to turn her mind to that, towards winning the governor's admission that some men were salvageable, towards ensuring his commitment to aid such an endeavour.

At the moment, she had no idea how.

But it would have to happen, because she earnestly believed the man standing by the fire in front of her deserved a chance to rejoin society, to whatever degree might be possible, whatever sacrifices might be necessary.

"I'm going to get fresh water," he said. "I won't be far, it's just to the north. If you're all right to be alone here."

"I shall be fine," she said, sedately, jolted back into the construct of such polite exchanges.

He nodded. "I won't be long," he said again, pausing for a moment by the door. "If the coals fall, just use that iron to push them back in."

She could see, now that he gestured, where the grate was broken and the wood might conceivably escape as it burned. "I will."

He left, lodging the door firmly if crookedly shut behind him, and soon it was quite quiet.

Abigail stirred from the chair and rummaged through the bags they'd brought for the blanket, which she spread on the floorboards closer to the fire. The chair was too rickety for her to trust much longer. She took her feet out of her boots, and stretched them out in her stockings, arching her tired toes. She could feel a blister had formed on one of the heels. At least, after all that walking, sleep would probably come more easily tonight. The night must be half through already, in fact. She _was_ very tired.

It seemed no time at all before Billy did return, and she was comfortable, curled on the floor—far too comfortable to bother to sit upright and straighten her hair or put her boots back on or rearrange her dress, all of which she probably should have done. Instead, she gave him a drowsy, unthinking smile of welcome and was startled to see his first smile blossom in response. For a moment, they gazed at each other, caught by the incongruity of the situation. Abigail was the first to look away, self-consciousness overcoming her, as she sat up.

He brought the leather water-bag over to her and held it out. She took it and drank in quick gulps and murmured her thanks. He set it aside, checked the fire, hunted through his supplies. There wasn't much food, he told her, but they could probably find meat on the morrow. Abigail replied whatever they did would be quite fine. (They seemed to only have these two ways to talk to each other, terribly personal on the one hand, banal statements of fact on the other. She couldn't be sure which was more difficult.) He rose, then seemed indecisive about something.

"What is it?"

"You ought to sleep."

"I am quite tired," she acknowledged.

"I can go outside. If you'd be more comfortable."

"Heavens, of course not," she said, startled into the imprecation. "There must be animals out there!"

"Nothing bigger than I am," he said. Was he joking?

"You must stay," she said.

"I wasn't sure you'd think it'd be proper."

"Well, it..is not," she said, twisting hair self-consciously over her shoulders.

"So, I'll go." He put his hand out on the door.

"Mr. Bones. Billy." As discomfited as she was, she made the effort. "There is very little about my circumstances of late that could be considered proper. That being so, I am willing to forego such—concerns of propriety—until they become relevant again."

His expression seemed to indicate he wasn't too certain what all of that truly meant, but he dropped his hand from the door. He crossed over the noisy floorboards to lower himself down by the fire, just a few feet from her, but respecting the outline of the blanket as hers.

"If you change your mind," he said, "let me know."

"Thank you," Abigail said, and hoped that it communicated her genuine appreciation for that option, rather than just appearing to be a reflexive reply. She settled back down on her space, which now felt very much like it would not—_could_ not—be intruded upon, and which in turn began to make that cold disengaged part of her soul feel that it was warming just a little. Pillowing her head on her arm, she yawned silently into her sleeve, and through gradually closing lids watched Billy tend the fire until she lost awareness to sleep.


	3. Ship

Early the following morning Billy spent time looking for and finding small game for that day's food. New Providence was not particularly rich in fauna, but he'd spent enough time ashore that he knew where and how to find some.

He hadn't especially wanted to leave Abigail behind, but he'd known she would slow down the process, so instead he'd taken the time to shown her how to use the pistol he'd brought along. She had watched wide-eyed and attentive until he was confident she could fire it (though perhaps not necessarily hit anything, but in fairness the weapon was chancy regardless, misfiring a notable portion of the time.) He didn't think she would need to use the pistol, but it was an extra measure of safety while he was gone. And the way she was obviously pleased by having its keeping was gratifying to him.

By midday, outside over an impromptu fire, they had cooked and were partaking of what he had brought back. He was watching to see if Abigail's color would improve because after a day (or longer, for all he knew) of nothing but bread and water, she seemed far too pale. At least she was trying the meat, though watching her expression as she chewed it didn't seem to be enjoyable. Without salt or spice that was to be expected, though he'd long grown used to far worse fare.

"Have more," he encouraged, offering another piece on the edge of his broad knife.

"It's very..."

When she couldn't find a word, he said, "It's better than ship's biscuits."

"I suppose really anything is."

He could think of things, but decided not to regale her with tales of all the half-way edible and spoiling foodstuffs he'd had to consume in the past. When she still declined the offering, he finished it himself.

"Speaking of ships," Abigail said, "you said we would depart two days' hence?"

"Right."

"Will we board from the port?"

"No, they'll be looking for us there. A boat will meet us, take us out closer to the coast here."

"And then, how long do you suppose it will take to reach Charlestown?"

He wiped the knife clean against some nearby foliage, and considered his answer.

Because what he hadn't told her yet—and indeed, might not at all until it became inevitable—was that they weren't going to Charlestown. The merchant captain whose contact he'd spoken with was charted for Savannah, considerably southwards, but it was the only likely boat leaving on such short notice, considering he hadn't wanted to wait even this long. He'd paid a not inconsiderable sum for himself and Abigail to be granted passage, particularly as their boarding off-shore was an additional inconvenience, and that wasn't even with any kind of guarantee as to what their quarters would be like aboard ship. Which was also why they were going to be travelling under the names of Mr. and Mrs. William Manderly. Only a select few knew his real name, and he could protect her far better as as a husband than as some random unspecified travel companion.

Abigail was gazing at him expectantly and he realized his silence had gone on longer than he'd meant it to.

"Er, depends on weather—but less than a week." That wasn't a lie, anyway. With speed and time on their side they could reach Savannah in four days.

"The journey felt longer, before."

But she sounded glad, not suspicious, and he was surprised by a twinge of guilt. He didn't reply, not wanting to add to the deception. If he was being completely honest with himself, he still wasn't visualizing delivering her directly into her father's hands. Charlestown was well-known for its inhospitality to those who considered themselves above or outside the law, and Billy could see no reason why a man like Governor Ashe would want anything to do with someone like him.

Based on his earlier conversation with Abigail, he couldn't see much reason why he'd want anything to do with the man, either.

But there was the money. And if he wasn't doing this for the money, what was he doing it for?

It was the right thing to do, that was all he was certain of for the time being. Getting her away from Nassau, a place that would consume her without mercy and discard her utterly once it was done with her—that was the plan.

Beyond Savannah, he didn't know. And he hoped she wouldn't ask.

"I don't know how comfortable it'll be," he said, finally, wanting to give her some kind of honesty in this moment.

"As long as I am not bound and blindfolded, I will be comfortable," Abigail said in her soft voice.

He didn't know about that, either. But no point worrying about it now, they would find out soon enough the degree to which the journey might prove disagreeable. As long as they reached the other coast.

The sky had been clouding over and rumbling since the morning, and now, with the afternoon, threatened rain. Since he meant to catch a few hours of sleep anyway, they retreated indoors and Abigail announced that she would sit up, so Billy told her to wake him if anything was amiss. He was nearly always able to fall asleep within minutes of settling down—a constant carryover from so many days aboard ship—and this time was no different.

When he did wake, it was to the sound of steady rain above and the dripping of water coming through the collapsed section of roof. He felt the fabric of the blanket over him, as he had when he'd woken in the cave; she'd covered him with it again. A little bemused, he lay still for a while, watching the low-burning fire, listening to the rain. Eventually he glanced over his shoulder at her.

She was sitting with her back against the wall, and gave him a tentative smile when their eyes met.

"Back home," she said, twisting her fingers together, "I would be drinking tea in such weather. With a book, or perhaps some embroidery to keep me occupied."

"Tea sounds all right," he said.

She smiled more deeply. "The other two, not particularly?"

"I know nothing about embroidery," he agreed, rolling to his back and clasping hands behind his head. "I _can_ read."

"You can?" Her surprise was gentle enough not to offend.

"I just don't have the time. If we're not working, we're sleeping."

"I have had nothing but time, in my life," she said pensively. "Season after season of doing very little of anything with any purpose. I did not always see it that way, but in recent days I have been so much in my head."

"Being a prisoner gives you time to think." He didn't mean to say it so grimly, but he knew that better than anyone, and now she did, too. He would have preferred they had something else in common.

"And now, I suppose, I will return to that life. From before."

She sounded more resigned than hopeful. He couldn't resist saying, "I thought you wanted to be home."

"I do, more than anything, but what if it doesn't feel the same?"

"Why wouldn't it?"

"Because everything has changed."

Ah, she'd alluded to that earlier. No, said it outright, that she didn't know if her father would treat her differently if he thought she'd been compromised in one way or another. And he'd said what he thought about that, and it had made her upset.

He still considered he was right, though. What kind of man would treat his child differently based on something that had happened over which she had no control?

One who didn't deserve to have her back, he thought, darkly.

And then he had to remind himself he wasn't actually _trying_ to get involved in this girl's life and that he should probably stop giving the matter any thought. _Let's just stay focused here, Bones. Get her where she needs to be and get back to your own life._

That felt better.

Boarding that ship was the next step. Too bad it couldn't be happening sooner.

* * *

Before midday on the arranged day, Billy had brought Abigail down to the coast to a spot on the beach where Hobbs was waiting with the rowboat. He and another crewmate, Dixon, had gotten it there that morning. The merchant ship was not in sight yet, but should be coming around the point any time now.

Abigail stood, diffidently, in the distance a way off while he greeted the two men with claps on the shoulder, not needing to use words as thanks. Hobbs gestured to another bag under the seat of the rowboat. "That's the rest of the stuff you asked for. And the last of the payment for the captain."

"Any word out there about her? About me?"

Hobbs shook his head. "They're keeping quiet about it. Course they're pissed, but no one wants it common knowledge that you stole her out from under them. Lucky that you're getting out of here, though. I bet there's them are looking for you."

"Have to deal with that when I get back. What about work?"

"Well, you know." Hobbs scratched the back of his head. "Usually I'd say everyone's pretty replaceable, but you might still be able to come back. Guess it depends on how long you stay away."

"I do more than the rest of you lot put together," Billy said, lightly.

Hobbs looked down the beach at Abigail. "She worth this trouble?"

Billy followed his gaze. Abigail, out of earshot of their lowered voices but obviously realizing they were talking about her, ducked her head behind a cloud of dark hair.

"I don't know," he said, after a brief considering silence. "Just wasn't right for her to be here."

"No one said you had to be the one to rescue her," Hobbs said with a grin.

"You're the one pointed her out to me."

"Aye, but this is mebbe not how I thought you would handle it."

"Well, it's done now."

_Almost done._

_ Just getting started._

He saw the shape of the ship appearing in the distance, as arranged. The sun was near direct overhead.

"Time to move," Hobbs echoed his thoughts, clapping him on the back. "Best of luck."

He acknowledged that with a nod, then gestured, palm up, for Abigail to come to him, and she did, making her way across the sand. Hobbs and Dixon held the prow while Billy helped Abigail in, then scrambled in after them, sending the boat scurrying through the water out to the waves. Billy took Dixon's place at the oars for a spell, keeping an eye on Abigail in front of them, noting how bloodless her hands that gripped the sides of the boat were.

Though the weather was ideal, the water was still quite rough as they moved through the breakers; perhaps she was afraid of being thrown out. He mouthed a questioning _are you all right_ and she nodded but too quickly. Clearly she was terrified. He gave her a reassuring smile and hoped that was helpful, but by the time they reached the ship and he was lifting her out to the rope ladder dropped down for them, her entire body was trembling and cold.

"Hey," he said, bracing himself though the boat was rocking, trying to hold both it, and her, steady. "Just step out. It's right there." The lowest wooden slats were slick with sea-foam and he could feel her distrust in every line of her swaying body held in front of him. She hesitated, then moved as if to go, then moaned, "I'll fall," so softly the wind swept the sound away the second he heard it.

"No you won't. I have you. Step out and grab the ropes."

After another moment she did, swinging away from him towards the side of the ship. "Go up," he called. "Don't look down."

She was frozen, temporarily, but then she began to climb, a few hesitant steps up on the rungs, her dress buffeted about by the wind. Billy reached back to shoulder their goods in the bags, gave a wave to his men in the rowboat and stepped out after her. Her dress was in his face, but he leaned backward, patiently, waiting for her to progress upwards. It was slow, but she made it, and at the top, two men waited to help her over the rail and to the solid deck. Billy swung over after and thanked them for their assistance.

The captain appeared, greeted them without particular enthusiasm and directed someone to show them their quarters for the rest of the journey. As Billy had imagined, the quarters turned out to little more than a storage space below decks that he estimated at about thirty square feet. At least it had a door. And nothing else in it but a covered bucket, a pitcher, and a recently attached rope hammock bed with a perfunctory blanket of dubious cleanliness.

The arrangement, even purchased so expensively, wasn't anything better than what he'd been expecting and was of course preferable by far to being lined up side-by-side with the other crew-mates, but looking at her, looking at it again through her eyes, he felt sorry, frustrated that it had to be like this.

She pressed her lips together, then took a small breath. He inhaled, too, waiting for her to unleash some anger, some tirade about how this was no fit accommodation for a lady, and she'd be right, it wasn't.

Instead she gave him a tiny sideways smile and said, "It's certainly not a very _large_ room."

Damn her, he wanted to smile at her now too, and he wanted to tell her he was sorry. And that she deserved much better.

They were still standing outside when the crew member who'd shown them the room reappeared with a lantern, which he passed to Billy. "Clarke," he said, by way of introduction. "Cap'n says he'd prefer it if the missus isn't seen by the men much," he added apologetically, though Billy didn't miss the hint of curiosity in his eyes over Abigail's disheveled appearance.

He straightened, asserting his height over the other man, and said, "That suits us just fine."

Clarke nodded. "So you can get food from the galley when it's time and bring it back here."

"Right."

"And here's the key. Cap'n has t'other."

Billy took it, and the other backed away, leaving them still standing in the doorway.

He gestured for her to go in first. She was staring at him. He recalled, belatedly, why.

"Did that man say I was your..."

He shot a glance around, but she'd kept her voice down. Still, he guided her into the room and closed the door behind them before he said, "It's easier this way."

"Easier for _who_?" She blinked at him with righteously dark eyes.

"Men are more respectful if they think you're someone's wife."

"Are they? Have you done this before?"

"No," he rolled his eyes, "It's just true."

"So what is my name?" She placed a hand on her hip and looked at him with a pertness of expression he hadn't heretofore seen and wasn't entirely sure how to cope with.

"Pardon?"

"My name. Am I truly—"

"Mrs. William Manderly," he said, somewhat more defensively than he meant to. "You don't like it?"

Her chin tilted. Spots of color rose in her white cheeks. "As a name, it will serve."

"Good," he said, still feeling a touch of truculence. "You're stuck with it for the next week."

"Perhaps there is a way you expect me to behave."

This took him off-guard and he slowly un-shouldered the bags he'd been bearing, letting them fall to the floor. "No, I...Your behavior's up to you."

"I mean," she said, "given that there is apparently a code among men as to how they might view me now."

"You'll be in here most of the time, so I'm not too worried."

"Oh, so I am simply not allowed to be in their company for fear of unconsciously drawing their attention." Both hands had gone to her hips now and she faced him, head-on.

"No." _Christ_. "It's just easier to protect you this way—"

"I believed you thought you were a different kind of man than my father," Abigail said. "But now I think you may be more alike than you realize."

That stung like a palmful of nettles, and he felt himself grimace. And for a second, her face looked as if she regretted it. He waited for her to take the words back, but she didn't.

"Sorry," he said, after a pause. "But I am going to keep you safe whether you want me to or not."

Probably he shouldn't have added that modifier, but she should have apologized too.

The ship was beginning to creak and shudder, signifying that they were about to move.

He gestured behind him, and she cast her gaze to the ground. Then he remembered he was still holding the lit lantern, and took a moment to loop it above on one of the overhead hooks. It would be their only source of light in the windowless space. Also the key was still pressed into his palm, and he said, "Abigail. I want to lock this door."

She nodded, granting assent. Glad at least she hadn't ignored him, he stepped out and closed it, then put the key in the lock and turned it. Then leaned his head against the door for a moment in frustration.

This could be a long trip.

All around, the sounds of a journey underway, and he expected to be part of it; strange to come out on deck and see the activity from the point of view of a passenger who was neither needed nor expected to give assistance. He stood, watching a younger man struggle with the rigging for a full thirty seconds before he had to make himself look away. _Not my job. He has to learn the ropes by doing it on his own. _

He noticed the captain hailing him from the after-castle and though he would have rather not been drawn into conversation, he went on over. There was a bit of circumspection in the other man's manner, though he only seemed to want to comment on the water and winds of the day. Billy volunteered noncommittal observations, not wishing to be memorable any more than he already was by the anonymous arrangements, then apparent poverty on sight but proven financial backing. The fewer certainties there were about how and when Abigail had been returned to the other coast, the less fallout there would be for him to come back to.

"Heavy weather tomorrow, eh? Seems like—"

He couldn't stop himself. "One second, captain." A few strides, a couple of vaults over the nearest obstacles and he was taking the lines out of the bewildered lad's hand. "Watch. Like this." A few deft motions and turns later and he had the task properly assembled. Then he undid what he'd done and held it out for the boy to replicate, which the latter did, with a muttered thanks and a head-bob of respect.

Billy rejoined the captain, who gave him an amused glance. "Looking for work?"

He lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. "Old habits."

"Not that old. If we do run into weather, I'll take your help, if I can have it."

Billy was tempted to volunteer regardless, or even negotiate working for the final quarter of the payment (due upon safe delivery)—he was going to be sitting around an awful lot otherwise, and he couldn't imagine Abigail would want him taking up any more of her space than necessary. But such a decision could wait. He nodded to the suggestion, left the deck and, as it was now early afternoon, went below to the galley to find out about food.

When he brought some back to their room, however, Abigail recoiled at the idea of eating. She was curled in the hammock with the blanket, paler than ever, looking at him with eyes that had lost their earlier fire of and were now little more than pools of misery.

"Have to find those sea legs," he said. "Want some water?"

She shook her head. "Would you please push that bucket over."

He complied, setting the food in the corner where it couldn't shift and then relocating the bucket to underneath the hammock. Obviously she wanted it in case she were to start retching, but he hoped he wouldn't have to explain what else she was going to need it for.

He looked down at her with some concern. "Be better if you moved around." Even with the injunction that she wasn't supposed to be seen if possible. The air out on deck would help.

"I don't wish to move, thank you."

"If you change your mind, I'll bring you out." _Captain's wishes be damned_. "You had this before, yes?"

"Yes, though I think I was...insensate for much of it. That is part of my unremembered..." She waved a feeble dismissive hand over the edge of the rope.

"Right."

He took a few moments, then, to unpack what Hobbs had supplied them with. Another blanket, changes of clothing for both of them, a small bottle of rum, fire-starters, ammunition for the pistol, and such. He noted and reorganized everything efficiently, putting aside what they wouldn't need until they made landfall. Available space being at an absolute low, the only way he could completely stretch out on the floor was to position his blanket almost directly underneath Abigail on her rope bed. Which didn't bother him, he was used to sleeping in tight quarters with bigger, dirtier, and all-around less appealing crew-mates, but it might disturb her.

He made himself a neck roll out of the extra clothing and lay flat, looking up at her suspended body. If he reached up, not even fully extending his arm, he could touch her. Take hold of her hand, lightly resting still against the rope edge like a white bird.

And why was he even thinking about taking her hand? _Go to sleep_, he told himself. Touching her, even but a gesture of encouragement or solidarity, might just cause her to throw up on him.

The ship swayed, and, comforted by its familiar roll underneath, he fell asleep quite quickly once more.

By the time he woke, they were fully underway, the hum, creaks and shouts of an active vessel. He started to rise and then propped himself on an elbow instead—that was as high as he could get without bumping Abigail. She sensed or heard him move and turned her head, shifting the blanket aside from her face to peer miserably at him through the knotted ropes. He couldn't help it, he smiled. "How are you feeling?"

"Will you fetch me some water? To wash my face and hands."

He rolled out from under and sat up, which brought their heads on a closer level. "Need anything else?"

"If there is a cloth that's clean," she said faintly.

He took the pitcher and left in search of her requests, taking time while gone to casually and discreetly furnish the materials he'd need to construct a basic bolt for the inside door, which currently lacked any way to be secured from the inside, and that would not do (especially since there was another key.) It wasn't hard to find a piece of wood here, a peg there, even a tool since he knew where those goods tended to be kept. He got a curious look once or twice when it was inevitable that someone saw him nearby, but no one seemed like they wanted to challenge him.

Returning to their room, he passed the water to Abigail along with a linen dishcloth (of fair cleanliness) that he'd found in the galley, then laid out his supplies on the floor and marked off a spot on the door for the bolt.

She seemed a little revived after washing, and remained sitting up in the bed, watching him. "What are you doing?"

"Want to help?"

He'd just tossed the comment lightly over his shoulder, not expecting her to move, but after a moment she slid her legs down and knelt on the floorboards beside him.

"Have to make these two pieces the same size." He showed her with the chisel how to splinter off bits at a time. Her hands were ridiculously small and white next to his. She held the chisel somewhat awkwardly.

"Not like that, you'll cut yourself. Point the other way." He covered her hands with his own until she seemed to have the idea.

It was good to distract her from the sickness. Better still if they could take a stroll about the deck, but getting her to move from the bed was the first step.

"Ah—" With a quick in-drawn breath she pulled her hand away.

He took it back, unfolding her instinctive fist with his thumb. She did not resist as he ran his thumb along the pad of her finger, revealing a small splinter. It wasn't deep. Such a thing wouldn't have pierced his own skin, but hers was fragile. "Likely come out on its own," he said. "Want me to finish this?"

"No, I can," she said, more sturdily, and resumed chipping away at the piece until it was relatively uniform with the other section.

"So one goes here," he held it up to the door, "and this one, here. The peg goes there, and then you just slide it over."

"I see," she said.

The contraption wouldn't, of course, stop someone truly determined to get in, but he didn't point that out. He could probably himself shoulder his way through it from the other side. Still, it was an extra deterrent so that nobody could just wander in under some pretext or another.

"Feeling any better?"

"A little."

"Want to eat? Mind if I do?" They hadn't had anything since of the last of the bread early that morning before leaving for the beach.

She grimaced, but said, "Go ahead."

He shifted and sat with his back to the door—there was truly no room to do anything—stretched his legs out, and pulled the by now largely congealed food over, scooping it up with a biscuit. Abigail, also having shifted to sit beside him, just inches away, put a hand over her mouth.

"Sorry," he said, ceasing to chew.

"No...it's fine. It smells rather—what even is it?"

He looked down at the bowl. Criticizing or even evaluating shipboard food out loud was not a luxury the men typically indulged in, not if they wanted to stay on the cook's good side—and everyone wanted to be on the cook's good side, or what should be meat might end up being a strip of shoe leather.

_I've had better, I've definitely had worse._ "Uh...not sure."

"Not a glowing recommendation," Abigail murmured.

"Look, you don't have to eat until you feel better," he said, gazing into the bowl so as not to come across as too confrontational, "but I'd rather not return you a scarecrow."

"I suppose I already look fairly hideous." She drew her knees up to her chest and let her hair fall forwards, obscuring her face.

He couldn't help himself then, he reached out with his free hand and tilted curls away so he could see it. "At least your face is clean."

She turned in his direction, with some kind of expression he wasn't certain about. He'd only meant to jest but abruptly her eyes grew liquid and filled.

"Hey, no. Abigail. You're—you're fine. You've been through a lot."

She put hands up to her face and half-sobbed through her fingers, "I _despise_ being on a ship!"

Billy set the food to his other side and exhaled rapidly, not sure what to say to that. The sea hadn't been good to her so far, true. It wasn't good to a lot of women, probably—wives, mothers, daughters...But it was his livelihood. Had been for a long time. She just hadn't seen its beauty yet. And this part, the seasickness, was no doubt the hardest to get over.

He put out a hand, drew it back, rested it on her shoulder cautiously. For a moment she stiffened, her breath catching. But then she leaned just a little towards him, and he took that as consent to move his hand gently across the top of her back, to the other shoulder and back again, slowly, alert to any indication she found the contact disagreeable.

"It's only a few more days," he said, just audibly so as not to disturb the peace.

Her breath rattled, shakily, and still she did not move away, or shrug off the pressure of his hand. But he let it fall then, anyway, thinking she might feel she didn't have a choice, when they were virtually locked in together. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel she couldn't get upset with him for fear of reprisal.

Because he was certain of this: if he _didn't_ get her all the way to her father's side, it wouldn't be because of anything she did or didn't do.


	4. Ship II

Abigail had not felt any positive human touch in so long that she hadn't been able to move away from Billy's soothing hand on her back (as improper as such contact undoubtedly was, touching her in a manner that wasn't required by any stretch of the imagination.) After miserable hours tossing in the rope bed, fighting off surges of nausea, she had indeed enjoyed a small reprieve helping to build the door bolt which had enabled her to focus on something else, but then when her nostrils had noticed whatever concoction he'd dredged up from the galley, her stomach had threatened to revolt once more.

And then just considering what a hopeless wreck she must appear to any who saw her in such a state, he had teased about her clean face—never mind her matted hair and soiled borrowed dress (which at the time she'd of course deeply appreciated but now from which she was longing for a change), and it had been altogether too much for her tight-stretched nerves to bear.

She had been embarrassed of the tears as soon as they welled up, but he'd seen them, and then she couldn't help expressing her distaste of where they currently found themselves, much as she'd previously promised she would be happy under any circumstances just to be going home. She was deeply disappointed by her own lack of ability to remain serene, especially after having congratulated herself on maintaining calm when they'd first viewed the utter privation of the quarters.

And so she had burst out, and when she'd felt his hand it had been a surprise, a shock really, uncertain what he intended, and when she realized it was just that—human contact meant in comfort—she couldn't turn it down, move away, or speak to say it wasn't needed, because it was.

Too soon, the gentle pressure of his hand stopped.

She had gotten control of her breathing, her tears, in those few moments, so perhaps that was why. She could hardly ask him to continue, though every sore inch of her back desired it, and some of her sore heart too.

She murmured his name, a question, looked over at him.

"Yeah," he answered, soft. A whisper.

_Can't I just lay my head on your shoulder for a while?_

_ Would that be so very wrong?_

She looked down at his hand where it had dropped from her back, now resting on his leg, palm up. Holding a breath, she put her hand in his.

His fingers curled around hers, like before, and his thumb ran over them again. A brief prickle of pain as it grazed the spot where still was lodged the splinter.

It was enough, more than enough now, any more would have been overwhelming. To sit side by side in the tiny, dimly lit space, closed off from everything else in the world, with only the rolling of the ship underneath them, the muted sounds coming through the wood, beside and below. As he'd said, only a few more days. She could manage, knowing how much longer it would be.

They could hear booted feet outside and then a rap on the door. Hastily Abigail pulled away, brushing her dress, scrambling upright—though considering they were supposed to be _married_, she recalled with a blush, it could hardly matter to be seen holding hands. Billy stood up and asked through the door who it was.

"Cap'n's asking for your help with somethin'," was the reply, sounding like the crewmate who had initially visited them.

Billy glanced back at Abigail, asking silently for confirmation that she was all right for him to go, and she nodded too quickly, not wanting him to think she couldn't be left alone for stretches of time. "Be out soon," he answered, cracking the door open, and then when the man departed, added, "Use the bolt while I'm gone."

She did, fastening it securely once he left, and then was alone in the quiet of the space. Her nausea had abated again, now that the food was set aside. Perhaps she would try to nap, not knowing how long he would be away, though she did want to begin imitating his style of sleep—not awake all day and asleep all night, but with specific intervals throughout both periods. It seemed efficient.

The rope bed was only slightly preferable to sleeping on the ground; her back was aching from its curve, but at least it was elevated off the floorboards (which appeared to have had no end of unidentifiable substances spilled on them at one point or another, contributing to the grubbiness of her dress.) She brushed herself off, ineffectually, and climbed back on the bed, settling down with the blanket, feeling better, warmer, comforted.

Vaguely aware of taps on the door, and her name being whispered through it, she nearly rolled out of the bed. Then came awake with clarity realizing Billy was trying to get back in. She lurched out and slid back the makeshift bolt, blurting apologies almost as soon as she got the door open.

"Ssh, it's fine. I wasn't waiting long." A blast of cooler, salt-fresh air accompanied him, and all behind him was night-dark. She blinked as he reached for her. "Come, we're going out."

"Now?"

"It's quiet. Just a few men on deck."

"But I—" She swept hands vainly through tangled hair.

He jerked with his head. "You're fine."

She came through the doorway so he could lock the door after them. The wind did smell delicious as it sung through and against the sheets of canvas above. She filled her lungs with the fresh air. The sea was smooth and black, their progress through it apparently steady.

Billy took her head and led her to the bulkhead to look over. He pointed to the sky, a vast swath of inky color speckled with gleaming bits of star, partially covered here and there by dusky clouds. As a ceiling over them, the sky had never appeared so big, touching and nearly blending in with the horizon where it turned to water. Errant spray leapt up from below, touching her with the faintest of sensory effects. She felt herself smiling, suddenly vibrantly awake, as if the wind had blown through her mind clearing out all the dusty, sleepy corners in one strong breath.

"Ever seen stars like that?" he challenged.

"No," she admitted. None that had taken the entire scope of her vision to see. "They're beautiful."

He looked proud, as if he had waved a hand and created all of it in this moment purely for her. "I didn't want you to sleep through this. Dawn's the other time worth being on deck, if you want to come out for that."

"The captain did say we shouldn't—" she ventured, directing her attention now to the others at their various positions, though as he'd said there weren't many men out and no one seemed to be paying them any obvious attention, though it was hard to see with the lack of light.

"I told him you're prone to be seasick and you need the air twice a day. It's fine." Billy both both hands on the bulkhead and leaned over, and she noticed the way the light from the ship's lanterns bounced off the muscles in his forearms. For a few moments it distracted her, and she felt something new and uncertain in her stomach. She dismissed it quickly as another variant of nausea, which it probably was.

"This is better, isn't it? Than being in there?"

She nodded and crossed her arms over her chest, squeezing her stomach.

"You cold?" He turned, leaning backward.

"No." The wind was cool, but had only made her shiver for a moment. Or perhaps that was her stomach again.

"When I first set foot aboard ship," he said abruptly, "I was sick for a long time." His voice got somber, and she reacted to the difference in tone.

"Were you really?"

"Not some of my favorite memories," he said, eventually, staring up at the sails.

"So why...how did you come to be..."

"I was rounded up against my will. Pressed into service in the navy." He looked down and ran a hand along the top of the bulkhead. "And then years after, when I got away...well, things happened—no, I _did_ things—incompatible with civilized society."

Abigail held her breath, wanting him to describe such things, not wanting to know at all.

"So the sea became a place to remain," he said, "and I suppose I'm just telling you this because now, well, it's more like home than anywhere else."

"I think I understand," she ventured. "I..I hope I do."

"You don't have to," he said, and suddenly looked tired. "I mean, not about me, I only wanted you to know that it can—that this—" he waved an arm to indicate the vast blackness around them—"can grow on you."

Abigail filled her chest with salt air again. "Is that, is this freedom?"

"I guess it is."

"Thank you for sharing it with me."

He gave her a smile that seemed self-conscious and she hoped he wouldn't regret having done so, having literally shared the things he'd told her about his past, that he probably did not tell just anyone.

"We can go back when you want to," he said.

"Let's stay a while longer."

He nodded and turned forward again, and they stood almost shoulder to shoulder, in silence, absorbing the air, the motion, the water below and the stars above.

* * *

Abigail rose the next morning to see the sun rise, a completely different but equally compelling experience of the sky and sea's beauty, and she felt well enough that day to eat and drink a little, garnering Billy's approval.

That day and night passed uneventfully, but they came into foul weather on the third day out, necessitating her staying within. Billy went out to provide whatever assistance he might, coming in much later soaking wet but cheerful, brushing off her concerns about him getting sick. "There's more clothing," he said, indicating the bag of supplies in the corner. "For you, too."

"Really? Wherever did you come by them?"

He shrugged. "Hobbs has a...woman, I think. I suppose he got them from her. I didn't ask."

Abigail suppressed a sigh, longing for a chance to wash up again, investigate the promised second outfit and possibly change into it, but it seemed like ill-timing to bother to ask for the frivolity of water just now. He needed to eat, and possibly rest.

But when he came back with food from the galley, her stomach, which had grown unsettled again from the rolling and the tossing of the ship all day, refused to allow her to join him. He wolfed down whatever the food was, standing by the door as he did, dripping all over the floor. She repressed the urge to remonstrate, seeing how much more comfortable it made him to be actively involved.

"Need anything?" he said, setting aside the bowl and putting his hand on the door.

"You are going out again? Surely it's time you had sleep?"

"I can catch up later. They need me."

"Is it very bad?" she said anxiously.

He smiled. "Naught but a squall. But some of the lads are new to such weather. I'll be back."

She was just re-bolting the door after he'd left when above her the lantern on its hook abruptly guttered and the room slipped into darkness. She paused in fear, her heart at once starting an erratic beat. There was nothing to see. Her hand still on the bolt. She called out, but he was already gone, and the sound of the storm drowned out the shout he might otherwise have heard.

Panic threatened to overtake her. _Abigail, be calm. You are not locked in_. With now shaking fingers, she slid the bolt back again and pushed the door open a space. Rain and wind buffeted it back in her face, and she had to exert pressure to get it to open again. At least there was light—the gray angry light of an evening storm, but not pitch blackness. She stepped out. The door slipped from her grasp and racketed backward behind her. The canvases flapped wildly overhead, men's voices echoed.

She lurched, unsteadily, along the boards, not daring to find her way to the bulkhead for support when it was so close to the water in the troughs. It did occur to her that the most likely spot to replace the lantern would be below-decks in the galley but she had no idea where to find that, especially not in the driving rain while the vessel was tossing about.

She had just managed to make her way to where she was in view of some of the other sailors, one of whom dropped whatever he was doing and bolted towards her, and though she sensed at once he was only coming to her aid, she lost her footing and slipped. For a moment, the shock of the fall stunned her, and then she was sliding, scrabbling ineffectively at the wet wood, her legs trapped under the weight of the sodden dress.

Hands grabbed her and steadied her. Abigail twisted her neck to see the man rendering aid—Clarke? the one who'd seen her first. He pulled her up firmly, an arm around her waist anchoring her to him as he took hold of a rope with the other. "Lady shouldn't be wandering around in this!"

For an instant she thought he was addressing her directly but she saw as she managed to raise her head again that Billy was there, his face itself a storm as he hauled her unceremoniously out of the other man's grasp. Abigail felt the breath temporarily leave her body with the force of colliding against the solid wall of muscle that was Billy.

"What are you _doing _out here?" he roared in her face. "Christ, Abigail, you almost went over!"

"I had 'er, no harm done," Clarke called over the roar of wind and water at them, but got little acknowledgement for his trouble beyond Abigail casting him a desperate passing glance of thanks as Billy hauled her by, back in the direction whence she'd come. She had no idea how he managed to keep his footing as he had picked her completely off her feet and was holding her next to him as he marched. He only set her down right at the door, had it open and she would have sworn he just meant to thrust her inside and close it again, except that she cried quickly, "The _lantern_ went out!"

Rain and spume pelted them, and a sheet of water came down from somewhere, landing mostly on his shoulders since he was towering over her. He ran an angry hand over his face. "I'll bring another! Will you just get inside?"

She took a step backwards, not frightened of him, although she'd never seen that anger on his face till now, but more from losing her balance again. He reached past her and shoved the door open, then took her arm—but not roughly—and brought her within. "I'll be right back," he said, with less vehemence. "Just stay inside. Please!"

She did, flattening against the wall, closing her eyes so she didn't have to see the darkness, feeling the door close beside her again, keeping the wind and water out.

He was back, thankfully, within moments, though she counted his absence in thudding heartbeats, and had hung up the new lantern, flooding the small space with flickering light. He turned, dripping, to her.

"Here." He unrolled a length of dry cloth and put it into her hands. She turned it over numbly, then pressed her face and neck to it, absorbing some moisture. A tiny spark of courage was still alight in her soul and she said, gazing up at him, "You shouldn't have yelled at me like that."

He rolled his head up to the ceiling. "I'm sorry. Jesus. You scared me. You could've gone overboard."

"You said that already. And I didn't. He caught me." She tilted her chin. "And stop cursing, I don't like it."

Billy let out a short sound like a disbelieving laugh. He stared at her, his eyes deep blue on this side of the light. "You are soaked."

"So are you." She froze, because he'd just taken the cloth out of her hand and pressed it against the mass of sodden hair hanging across her chest. He stopped, too.

"Uh, you better—change."

She put her hand back over the cloth, reclaiming it, and he removed his.

"I'm—" he gestured to the door again to indicate his plan to leave yet again. She didn't argue; finding the dry clothes and getting into them was a priority.

If nothing else, the incident had resulted in something very like a bath. With chattering fingers she climbed out of the wet things and rummaged through their goods to find the new outfit. She sat on the edge of the bed and put on the clean stockings underneath the dress. Her hair was even more tangled and unmanageable than before, so she tied it back in a clumsy braid, having nothing with which to comb through it but her fingers.

Thus dry, fairly clean, and properly attired, her racing pulse having slowed, the light in the room restored, she tried to relax.

Billy came back considerably later, when she had curled into the bed and pulled the blanket around her, and she became aware both that she hadn't bolted the door that time and that the storm must be subsiding at least to some degree, because the ship wasn't rolling with quite such ferocity any longer. She blinked at him. He did look tired this time. And still drenched.

She fumbled around at the edge of the bed where she'd laid the cloth to dry and passed it to him without comment. He pulled his shirt off over his head and gave himself a vigorous scrub-down, while she tried not to look and didn't quite succeed. Then she caught herself and firmly squeezed her eyes shut. _Abigail Ashe, it is without doubt none of your business what he looks like with his shirt off. Where is your sense of decency._ She shifted position in the bed so as to face the opposite wall, but she still felt her cheeks warming anyway, just to hear him there.

"I'm just gonna —"

"Please do what you need to do," she urged firmly, not wanting to hear him specify what part of clothing he planned to remove next. One could pretend, in one's mind, that such things were not happening, but not if they were actually announced aloud.

She heard the sound of their damp things being shoved into the corner, then he was rearranging his blanket on the floor underneath her as usual, and settling down upon it. She assumed he was now properly clothed. She hoped so.

Booted feet sounded outside, and a couple of bangs on the door. "Just checking on the missus!"

"She's fine," Billy called back. Abigail swung around, slipped her legs over the edge of the bed and answered the door, pulling it open a few inches. Some rain spat in, but it seemed the storm must be calming. Clarke dipped his head deferentially.

"Thank you for your assistance," she said, giving him a small smile in return. "It was much appreciated."

She heard Billy grunt behind her but ignored that.

"You're, you're quite welcome, ma'am. Glad all's well." He backed away, and she shut the door, and climbed back into the rope bed.

"What?" she said eventually, irritated by his meaningful silence.

"Nothing."

"You are thinking something rude. I can feel it."

"I'm not."

"About him!"

"He was great. He got to you before I could," Billy said, sounding offhanded.

She turned her head and peered suspiciously down at him through the rope barrier, but his face was ingenuous. They looked at each other for a few moments and then she turned her body back to face the ceiling.

After a little while he added, "Just, you never said to _me_, that you appreciated anything."

"That is because," Abigail said crossly to the ceiling, "you picked me up like...like a..." she fought for a worthy simile, "like a sack of...sweet potatoes."

(That wasn't it.)

"_Sweet_ potatoes," Billy said, and she could _hear_ his grin.

She might have continued to stare above in mutinous silence had he not persisted—"Not even just regular potatoes then?"

She leaned over the edge of the bed and swatted ineffectually in his direction, catching him somewhere along his arm, and he laughed outright, catching her hand when she went to repeat the motion. He circled his fingers around her wrist and held it, idly, but not letting her go.

"Also," she said, not pulling away, but glaring down at him as haughtily as she could manage from the awkward vantage point, "he was very polite."

"Yeah?" He ran his hand over her palm, his fingers seeking hers. "That splinter gone yet?"

She had forgotten about it, and now she tugged back, inspecting their interwoven fingers. The speck seemed to have disappeared.

"Hmm," he observed, seeing also that it was gone.

The bed swayed gently, and she became conscious of how intimate the moment had become. He was a mere two feet directly beneath her, and they were holding hands. Which they had done before, but more to a tone of comfort. Something felt different, in the way the teasing had turned to softness. There was something speculative..? serious, anyway, in his gaze. She wanted to return to the lightness of a few moments ago, even though she'd been vexed. But she also didn't know how to get back there, not unless she rebuked him and ruin it completely, but it was also not permissible to let this moment continue, or, Heaven forbid, deepen.

"Let me go,"she said, and knew at once that was wrong because he dropped her hand at once, breaking eye contact, and that wasn't _it_, she wasn't offended—Abigail squeezed her eyes shut for an instant in regret. _ But how was I supposed to manage that? How to say that I do not _dis_like his touch, but it can overwhelm me, when I'm new to all such things? Now look at his face, he certainly thinks he has offended me and must only touch me if I'm on the verge of falling overboard again._

"Sorry," she whispered, feeling the inadequacy of the word, its inability to cover all the facets of what she meant to say to him.

"No, it's late," he said, somewhat brusquely. "Should get some sleep."

"I didn't mean—" she tried once more.

"Goodnight, Miss Ashe."

The words had been calmly, not coldly delivered but she felt them like a chill breeze regardless.

"Goodnight," she murmured in reply, turning her face up and shifting rather miserably back into the blanket. Only when she was certain he was sleeping from his light, steady breathing did she dare to turn over again and press her face against the ropes to watch him. He had an arm under his head, cradling it, and his bristly jaw was relaxed, his face smooth of any grim lines.

She went to sleep herself thinking of how he'd admitted earlier, _you scared me, _without any apparent embarrassment or fear of sounding weak. She'd truly appreciated that, the fact that he could confess to such a thing, even if—or perhaps particularly because—neither of them knew why it was true.

* * *

In the morning Billy brought breakfast up from the galley, politely offering it for her consumption, and Abigail accepted—the storm had died at some point in the early hours and her stomach was calm enough to tolerate the idea. Yet as they ate there was none of the sense of camaraderie that had been building little by little thus far, no joking about tasteless biscuits or unidentifiable lumps in the soup as they had on previous occasions. They consumed the meal in outwardly peaceful silence, but she was squirming internally.

Though the weather was clear, he didn't offer to take her out for a sunrise visit to the deck, and she did not want to suggest that they do so, though she dearly wished for the fresh air and change of space.

And he, in turn, did not attempt to fabricate a reason for being needed on deck, but left after they'd eaten just the same, with no comment on when he might be back. She'd politely asked, before he left, if he would bring a bucket of water at some point, and he just as politely acceded, and then a very short time later she heard it being deposited just outside the door.

She stewed for a while in the room on her own, then fetched the bucket within—leaving the door open for a few moments to air the space with fresh gusts of wind—and set herself to work at scrubbing their discarded clothes from the previous night. To have any task was better than none, especially when one's soul felt turbulent as hers. When the washing was done, she wrung out the clothing, laid it across the bed to dry, and stepped outside to dispose of the water over the side, followed by the contents of the other bucket (which she alone had been discreetly using when necessary, as horrifying as the experience had initially seemed).

Unnoticed, she went back within and sat by the wall, longing for a book from her father's library; even the most boring and ponderous of sermons would have been welcomed at this point. Anything but being forced to contemplate the reality of another two days (she was trying to keep track and that seemed right according to what Billy had originally told her regarding the length of the journey) spent staring at the walls or up at the ceiling, especially if her travelling companion was going to be distant.

Billy did not return by midday to have a second rest, and she wondered if he were now attempting to acclimatize to the full night of sleep of the land-bound (and just when she had been trying to imitate _his_ sleep schedule, ironically). Abigail moved the drying clothes and napped anyway, but woke up with a pressing headache. By the time he finally arrived back at the room, she was not too proud to assert that she needed some time out on deck.

He looked, she thought, uncertain.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. Of course." He pushed the door open behind him, so that she could see it was already dark.

She hesitated, not afraid to venture out on her own, but wondering if he did not mean to accompany her.

"We agreed you're not a prisoner, didn't we?"

"Yes," she said staunchly.

"Then take the air. Moon's out, there's some light to see by."

She slipped past him, out into a glorious night.

The promised moon had slipped behind a few clouds, but was indeed still sufficient as she walked along the deck. Someone in the rigging above whistled, whether a signal of sorts or some other type of communication she wasn't sure. She held her head gamely high and drank in the sweet, salt air. Belatedly she thought she ought to have brought the blanket to wrap around her shoulders, but she wasn't going to go back for it.

The deck, she did notice, was scrubbed impeccably clean.

A couple of sailors working together to wrestle something into place nearby, stopped and looked over at her with expressions she couldn't make out. Was it true, what Billy had said about them being more respectful, thinking she was a married woman? She gave them a brief glance she hoped was neither encouraging nor rude, and then turned and leaned out against the bulkhead, trying to focus solely on the invigorating feeling of the wind against her aching scalp and knotted hair. Actually, what she wanted to do was unbraid her tangles and try to shake them out in the wind to see if that helped the headache, but not with anyone watching—that would have been far too...indelicate, she supposed.

Strange how smooth and soft the ship moved through the water when it was calm on such a night as this. Or perhaps she was, at last, simply becoming accustomed to the sensation? To watch the passage of water gave the sense that they really were making progress across the ocean to the home shores. To watch the moon, vanishing in and out of the clouds from moment to moment, impressed upon her the vastness of the sky, the smallness of her own person. Such things might be read about in books, and she had read them, but to experience them was truly far more valuable to understanding.

Even with all the turmoil of the past weeks, with both the forgotten and clear memories of fear, pain, terror...she realized that she was grateful for this moment. For the water below, for the sky above. For the chance to fill her lungs with clean new air before bed. For the freedom of it.

She remained outside for as long as it took to make her headache slacken, which wasn't immediate, and her feet began to tire of standing, even pacing, up and down. At last, feeling grateful also for having successfully avoided interaction with anyone, she returned to their room. Billy hadn't locked the door and so there was no need to tap, although she did, just to let him know she was coming back in.

He was taking their presumably dry things off the bed, shaking them out and stowing them away. She blushed to see her stockings. "I can do that."

"No trouble," he said, casting her a glance up and down. She put hands to her cheeks, conscious that the wind had blossomed color into them. "There's soup from the galley, if you want," he indicated the bowl by the door.

"Did you have some?"

"I did, below-decks with the others."

"Oh." This deflated her slightly, if only because she had perhaps pictured him being within the whole time she was out, waiting the way she had to. "Is it good?"

"It's passable," he said with more of the jesting manner she was used to. "Mostly just broth. But still hot, try it."

Abigail did, and had to concur, it was fairly watery—but at least of belly-comforting warmth. She drank, replaced the bowl and settled herself diffidently on the bed, now removed of their clothing. She felt, now, that they should talk, at least of inconsequential things, but she did not know how to begin.

"Captain expects we can make land by tomorrow night, if the wind stays with us," Billy said, startling her. _Tomorrow?_ That seemed both delightfully close and unexpectedly sudden. _Home. Then perhaps only another day until I see Father._

The realization gave her a spike of unease. She felt unready. _And he must be glad he is almost rid of me—_though if Billy was, there was no evidence of such in his expression. She did not wish to press more on the subject, so she simply nodded in acknowledgement of his words.


	5. Georgia

The captain had informed Billy that he would be letting them off on the beaches at Tybee Island, the most outwardly point before the ship continued up the river to Savannah. Though this was not what they had originally agreed upon, he was not inclined to argue. Abigail would be happier on land, she'd expressed her distaste for being aboard more than once, and he was also ready for a change of pace. So he'd paid the captain the remainder of the negotiated coins, shook hands, and that was that.

By early evening, when the light was still high, two of the men rowed them in to the beach. Abigail had said little the whole day and even less once they made their departure; Billy could tell by the way she held herself that she was anxious. The weather was fine, that was favorable; they wouldn't make much progress this day, but at least they wouldn't have to make camp in pouring rain.

Probably in view of their altered arrangements, the captain had granted him a few extra supplies—some canvas, more dried foodstuffs, and a bigger pack in which to stow everything.

The rowboat brought them within a few metres of the sandy shore, and Billy vaulted over the edge, waded in with their supplies and then came back for Abigail. He tried not to notice how she made him wait while prettily thanking the men, both of whom were sheepish under her favor, and held out his arms for her. She stepped over the edge of the boat, the other two providing assistance, and he swept her aloft of the water. He gave the men a parting nod for their well-wishes and carried Abigail through the remaining stretch of water to deposit her on the sand.

Abigail stooped to smooth out the bottom of her dress, then stood upright, using her hand to shade her eyes from the distant sun, assessing their surroundings.

Billy adjusted the straps on the packs to better fit his shoulders. "Ready to move?"

"But...where are we? I had thought we would go with the ship right in to the harbor."

_Are we gonna do this now?_ he asked himself, running a hand across his face. Maybe he'd just assumed she wouldn't ask questions until it became apparent they had some travelling to do. _Might as well get it over with._

"Billy?" she said, her voice catching in anxiety. "Is this Folly Beach, or—"

A decent guess, though one that would have put them considerably closer to Charlestown than they were.

"No," he said, resigned. "We're nearer Savannah."

"Savannah, _Georgia_?"

"Aye."

"But that's—" She glanced away, probably calculating internally, and looked back up at him with huge eyes.

"Look, we had to leave Nassau, right?"

"Yes but—"

"And this was the soonest we could do it. At least it's on the right side of the ocean."

"But we are nowhere _near_ home! When were you going to tell me?"

He sighed and put his arms up, digging thumbs into the back of his neck against the discomfort of the pack, or maybe the weight of her accusing eyes.

She folded arms across her chest, looked away, looked back at him, and said eventually, softly, "You knew before we ever got on the ship."

"I did."

"You _lied_ to me!"

"I did not. I never told you we were going to Charlestown."

"You let me think it! That is just a different kind of deceit." She marched away from him a few paces, looked out over the sea.

He tried to come up with something reasonable to say that wouldn't inflame her further. Nothing was coming to mind. He didn't want to throw the amount of money he'd spent in her face, or point out that his normal life was completely on hold because of her, that wouldn't be fair.

"This is close to home," he tried. "I can make arrangements in Savannah—"

She wheeled on him. "Don't trouble yourself! You might just as well be on your way now, and let me handle the rest of the journey!"

"I wasn't ever going to leave you on a _beach,_" he muttered.

"Well, here we are!"

"Yeah, so, we should just—go from here. With less shouting at me, maybe."

By that he meant to be funny, referring to the episode when she'd chided _him_ for yelling, but she actually glowered at him now. He hadn't yet seen her show this much intensity. Spots of color were high in her pale cheeks, her brows drawn together, fists tightly clenched at her side, she looked about as ready to throw a punch as any spoiling pirate.

He told himself to be careful, not to make fun of her in this moment. She was angry and he supposed she had a right to be, even if he was still perfectly convinced this had been the right decision.

"It'll be dark in a few hours," he said, squinting at the departing sun, then back at her.

Abigail turned and began to march away from him down the beach. In exactly the wrong direction. Not that he knew precisely where they were headed, himself—he needed to spend some time studying the map the captain had given him earlier—but he knew south wasn't it.

"You're going the wrong way," he called after her.

She stopped. Turned. Swept back up in his direction, dress trailing along the sand. She gathered handfuls of her dress in her fists and cocked her head at him. "Have you been here before?" Her voice was far higher pitched than he was used to, that probably wasn't a good thing.

"No..."

"Then how would you know?"

"Captain gave me a map."

"Ah. Yet another piece of information which I am apparently not privy to."

"I can show it to you." He tipped his head back and gazed at the sky for a moment, seeking patience, then back down at her. "I'm not trying to hide anything. Look, if we can just get to the town—"

"The _wrong_ town," she interrupted.

"All right, the wrong one. One thing at a time. We got marshes and a big river to cross—"

"If you're not trying to hide anything," Abigail interrupted again, "then prove it."

"What d'you want me to do?"

"I'm going to ask you a question and you are going to tell me the truth."

"Fine." He un-shouldered the bags and let them drop to the ground and spread his arms out to indicate complete willingness to comply.

"Fine," she said, crossing her arms again and leaning forward, almost on her toes, though she was still far too small to make the impression she probably desired. He tried not to smile at her.

She demanded—"Why don't you want to take me to Charlestown?"

That was a hard one. If she'd asked _why aren't you _going _to_, he could have prevaricated longer, talked around it, not committed one way or the other. Continued with the _let's-just-get-you-to-Savannah_ line.

But now he had to respond, and like she'd made him promise it had to be true. He rubbed the back of his neck in discomfort.

"Answer my question, if you please."

He sighed and scuffed a boot in the sand. "Charlestown is crawling with pirate hunters."

Abigail's eyebrows arched. "That shouldn't be a problem for a respectable gentleman by the name of William Manderly."

Ten or more days spent mucking through marshland wilderness was hardly going to help him look the part, he thought, but he tossed back at her, "Are you saying you're planning on still playing my wife?"

This made her blink, at least, and that was satisfying.

"If I had to I might," she said after another moment, and tilted her chin up. He had to fight the urge to tell her to stop sassing and start walking. The light wasn't getting any brighter.

"Yeah? You want to try it? We're gonna march right up to the governor's—_marble steps_," he improvised, and saw her flinch, "knock on that _big door _of that _big house_ you live in, and say, 'Well look what I brought back, and guess what, we're married.'"

Her mouth tightened and she glanced away. "We could," she said softly, still defiantly.

"Do what? Get married?"

He dipped his head, stepped forward, to look at her face a little more closely. Her lashes were down, her cheek turned from him, he couldn't interpret any of it beyond her anger having dissipated.

"Why did you say it that way?" She was now almost inaudible.

"What way?" He was confused. Had to lean in closer, just to hear her.

"As if it were such a joke."

"It _is_ such a joke!"

"You are insulting." She looked up unexpectedly, bringing their faces very close since he was already leaning toward her and she was standing on a slightly higher level of beach.

"I'm not trying to be," he said, at a loss.

"Well, you are, saying that—that happening would be _such a joke_."

"Only because of who you are," Billy said, "and because of who I am."

"Who _are_ you? Are you so terrible?" There were tears along her lashes now, and he wanted to wipe them away, but she wasn't his to touch. Not now. More than likely not ever.

"If I told you everything I'd done, you'd think so."

"I am able to bear much more than you think." She blinked at him, sending the tears falling, and he admired the determination in her voice.

"You're probably right," he agreed.

She took an unsteady breath. "We could pretend. If we had to. We could lie."

"Now you want to lie to your father?" he repeated doubtfully.

"I'm just trying to find a way for you to take me home! I don't care what you do afterwards. You could go back to the sea, you could abandon me. Men do it all the time."

"I'm not really following—"

"If you pretended to marry me, don't you see? That could answer so many questions."

"That could lead to a whole lot more questions actually," he said, dubious, and ever more aware of the darkening hour, added, "Let's just get off the beach, all right? We can talk about this later."

"Promise me first." She stamped one foot in the sand, which was ineffective since it just shifted underneath her.

"What now?"

"Promise you won't leave me in Savannah. I won't go another step with you unless you swear to it."

"Abigail." He sighed out his frustration to the sky. "You know I could just pick you up and _take_ you."

"Indeed," she said. "Why even go to that trouble? You could simply drag me along by my hair!"

He was caught between laughter at her impossibility and despair that they were never going to get moving. "Why are you so angry at me?"

"Because you lied to me, Billy, you—" She paused, regrouping when she saw him take a breath to argue, "—you let me think that I was going home, and now I don't know if I can even—"

He waited, counting time by the beats of his heart, and she finished, "—even trust you again."

"Let's review how this happened," he said, as evenly as he could. "The first day, I told you, you didn't have any choice about that. That you had to trust me. And you promised to do what I said. Yeah, I let you think what you wanted. But I never lied. And now I'm telling you to come away from this damn beach with me. Are you going to listen?"

The silence lingered between them for about ten more heartbeats. At last she said, "I'm ready."

Which wasn't exactly the meek yes he'd rather been hoping for but it would have to do. He picked up the packs and jerked his head to indicate the approximate direction they were going (west), then started to march that way. He didn't look back to see if she was following, though it was a struggle against his instincts not to. At this point, he didn't know what the hell he'd actually do if she _didn't _follow.

He knew they had the Savannah river to cross, but that wouldn't happen until the next day when they could hopefully catch it at low tide. For tonight, he'd be satisfied to get within striking distance of the banks and find an area more suited to spending the night than the open beach.

They traversed for about an hour before he decided the location was adequate. The ground had been marshy and bog-like in many places, but here it was a little higher, and more dry. What trees and bushes there were, were scarce, but still enough to give a sense of cover. He stopped abruptly, dropped the packs to the ground. The light had faded, threatening to turn to dusk.

"All right to stop?" It was rhetorical, he doubted she cared to argue.

Abigail looked around, uncertainly it seemed, but then made a quiet sound of assent, before slipping away to disappear behind a stand of bushes.

He let her get on with whatever she needed to do, and began constructing a makeshift shelter using their canvas. Had he been on his own he probably wouldn't have bothered, but he sensed her need for at least the illusion of walls around them. It was a fine balance to strike, the walls being protection, the walls being imprisonment.

He was adept at bending ropes and canvas to his will, and so this structure took no time to put together. Soon he'd scrounged some moss for basic cushioning and laid out the blanket over top. Abigail had returned and watched, making no attempt to offer help but that was fine. She did grant a "thank you" as he gestured for her to go in.

The air was warm enough, even with the sun gone now, so he didn't suggest building a fire, though he could have done that easily enough too. He asked if she wanted one, anyway, but she shook her head no.

He couldn't tell if she was still angry. Probably. The mere fact that she was not talking didn't signify, they'd had their long periods of silence together aboard ship as well. She was...diminished, maybe. And probably tired, which was to be expected after the past few days of almost complete inactivity followed by the brisk jaunt through this new territory.

Taking the second blanket, he stretched out near, but not under, the shelter.

Dark fell, and with it came the insects. He'd thought they might be distanced enough from the lower marshes that they might avoid such pests, but it seemed not. Fortunately, the captain, in addition to having warned him about the marshland dangers, had passed along a pot of grease whose smell he'd swore would keep the creatures away. Without the benefit of light, Billy spent a few moments rummaging through the pack to find the pot. He came up with the bottle of rum first, thought about having a swallow or two, decided regretfully they might need it later.

Abigail shifted, slapping herself with tiny sounds of vexation. Billy pulled the stopper of the pot out and gave its contents a wary sniff. It did smell quite terrible. But if it worked as promised, it was a valid trade-off. He decided he'd test it first before torturing Abigail with the stuff. Women had more sensitive nostrils, so they said.

He took out a sample and proceeded to smear the ointment along his face and neck, then crouched back and evaluated whether or not the insects were still buzzing in that vicinity.

"What smells," Abigail murmured in a tone of misery.

"Something the captain gave me. Keeps the bugs away," he concluded, putting some more along his forearms. "Come here, I'll give you some."

She struggled upright, a dark shape, and lurched awkwardly on her knees in his direction, the blanket clutched to her chest. She almost felt into his lap. "Easy," he said, steadying her. "Give me your face."

She tilted it like a child. He couldn't really see what he was doing, but he reapplied and smoothed the paste over her cheeks. Abigail gave a moan of disgust. "What _is_ that."

"Don't know, but it does work. Hold still." He swept his thumb over her forehead, across her chin, and down her neck, stopping at her collarbones. She had more exposed skin than that, but that seemed far enough for both of their comfort. "They still biting?"

"...No, but I can't breathe for the smell," she groaned.

"It's not that bad," he said, adding an extra dab to her nose.

"Objectively, it is quite revolting." She squirmed away from him back under the canvas, but a short while later he heard her sigh and there were no more sounds. And eventually her breathing evened and she appeared to fall asleep completely.

He relaxed on his own blanket, listening to the insects still hovering around in the air, and gazing up at the night sky with its first faint stars.

* * *

Sunrise came early and he was awake long before she was, a silent bundle in the blanket. He spent the time scrutinizing the rough map which was their only guide to the surrounding areas. There were going to be plenty of waterways to cross, but the largest obstacle was the Savannah itself, which they would have to manage today. He committed as much of the map to memory as he could, lest it become a casualty of their travels, and tucked it away again.

Abigail was finally stirring. He had to try to keep a straight expression when he saw her peel away the blanket and reveal a bug-bitten, greasy face with tangles of hair stuck to it. "Morning," he offered.

She made a whimper of sound that might have been a response, then crawled out of the shelter and disappeared among the bushes again. Billy took down the shelter, repacked the canvas, and had everything ready to go by the time she returned.

"Want to eat?" He proffered biscuit and some dried meat.

"May we wash somewhere?" she murmured, accepting the food, and trying to wipe ointment off her face with the back of her hand.

"Won't take long to get to the big river. We have to cross today."

"I can't swim," Abigail said uncertainly.

"If we hit the tides right, you probably won't have to," he said, finishing his own biscuit in one swallow. He was keen to see what this territory offered in terms of fish and game, but that would have to wait until the end of the day, once they had covered some ground.

They arrived at the banks of the Savannah by the time the sun was properly up. It was a vast stretch of water, split by an island and sandbars, with a wealth of ocean water rushing in to meet the down-flowing river. A challenge to cross safely, no doubt, even on his own, Billy guessed after some observation. With packs and a girl to get across, he had considerably less confidence in the outcome, although he didn't intend on sharing those doubts with Abigail.

"We have to wait a while," he said, dropping their supplies to the ground. "Till midday."

Abigail found a rock to sit upon and spread her bedraggled dress out. It was wet at least half way up, he noted. No wonder their progress had felt slow. So much of the land here was salt marsh that there was no way to avoid but going straight through. Tonight he'd have to build a fire so they could dry out.

"You'd do better if you didn't have all of that." He made a vague gesture to encompass the heavy skirts around her legs.

Abigail stared up at him. "I scarcely have an alternative."

He patted the knife at his belt. When she registered that, she looked shocked. "I couldn't possibly."

"Right, I understand, but it's slowing you down. And in the current—" he grimaced, imagining her being swept away.

Abigail followed his gaze out over the water. "Is it _very_ strong?"

"So they said. Just have to cross at the right time."

"I don't know anything about tides," she admitted. "I was...I was terrified, when you left me in the cave."

The admission warmed him. He looked at her with indulgence. "But you trusted me then?"

She couldn't meet his eyes, probably because of having expressed those doubts only yesterday. "Sometimes," she said softly, "trust is a choice. And sometimes it's just—there."

After a pause, he gestured at the bank. "If you want to wash that stuff off..."

"Yes." Abigail rose eagerly and investigated. They had come out near a shallow, sandy inlet, a good place to venture in. He took her hand and helped her down the slight slope into the water. Bending, she immediately began to cup her hands to rinse her face, and he walked back up, yet in sight and earshot but enough away that he wasn't standing right there behind her.

Eventually she rejoined him, considerably cleaner, and lay down on the slope to dry in the sun, not far away.

He watched the progress of the water, calculating its recession. He reckoned it would take at least a third of the hour to cross, maybe longer if they had to wade.

The sun climbed still higher. It was warm here, not as hot as Nassau. Abigail was falling asleep under its warmth, he noticed. Likely she hadn't found the ground comfortable after being accustomed to the rope bed. That, and the insect attacks, although he personally had been fine after the ointment.

It was hard not to be restless, not to second-guess when would be the best possible time to go, but once he made the decision, he crossed over to Abigail and knelt, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Hey. Water's low, time to move."

She struggled up, looking around vaguely, murmuring something about not having intended to sleep.

They started off into the water, at first wading through the shallow pools where the water was still, free of currents, disturbing flocks of seabirds that sailed away. The opposite shore was far, but there were visible sandbars in the middle where they might stop to rest, only he wasn't sure how many they'd be covered. Best to get through all at once if they might. Abigail followed alongside him gamely, unable to match his strides though he was walking slower to accommodate her. Their footprints were swallowed up in the wet sand underneath them. He kept looking out to sea, checking for the visible influx of tides. It still seemed as though their timing would work out, but they wouldn't know that until the end.

About third of the way through, he could see they were going to encounter the deepest channel, through which ships had to go at high tide.

Trying to be casual, he stopped, swung his pack around to his knee to balance it, and pulled out one of the ropes he'd used for the shelter. He tied one end to himself and then gestured for Abigail. She came close, uncertainly. "Just gonna put this around you, all right?"

She did not resist as he looped the the other end around her waist and secured with a good knot, but her eyes were wide and anxious when he paused and looked into them.

"It's better if my hands are free." He did not mention that if she fell, he was going to get swept out to sea with her, his strong swimming skills notwithstanding. Riptides could be merciless.

"It's deep there, isn't it?" she pointed.

He nodded, hoisting the packs a little higher. "You'll be fine. Let's go."

The water rose to his knees, then his thighs. He glanced back—it was at her waist already, causing her dress to billow up around her—and she looked quite frightened. The sand underneath their feet was shifting, loosening, the current coming on stronger.

He called out an encouragement, and she took a few more wobbly steps towards him, slackening the few feet of rope between them. "I...I can't, I'm losing my footing."

"All right," he said, taking a breath, squinting downriver. "Hang on." He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close, and used the water to help offset her weight. Abigail made a sound of fear and scrabbled against him, clinging. That was all right, except it couldn't help but affect his balance. He half-guided, half-pulled her along with him through the water, still able to connect with the sandy bottom.

And then the bottom disappeared and they were both floating, only for an instant before the current swept them along. Billy swam, as calmly and well as he could manage with the packs and Abigail both dragging against him. She was spluttering—he could hear her barely able to keep her head above water. He'd let the pack go first if he had to, though he didn't put a high chance on their survival without it, but if she went under, they were both going under.

He dipped, got a mouthful of salt-and-river water, but persisted, striking for the shore at an angle so as not to fight the current directly. Abigail's ineffective splashes behind him were distressing, but he couldn't stop now. He could only hope she was doing enough to stay above water long enough to take breaths. He kept going. What else was there, but the water, and their bodies, alternately drifting close, then spinning away? The pack hindered a great deal, and he was very close to throwing it off, but he pushed himself. Arm over arm though they ached at the extra burdens. He knew the knots would hold, knots were his job.

For a moment Abigail's splashing ceased, and it was that instant he had to choose—and then his boots struck sand again, and though the current continued to pull them away he surged forward with a final burst of energy—not sustainable, but they were there. He pushed himself up out of the water, grabbing the rope behind him and hauling Abigail right to his side—she was limp, but sputtering faintly. Swinging her up, waterlogged dress and all, he forged through the last of the water—at his stomach, thighs, knees—and on to damp, but solid sand.

He wrestled the pack off and sank to the ground with her still in his arms, turning her over, saying her name. Her chest was still, but then she bubbled out a few gasping breaths, and he filled his own lungs gratefully with air. She clung to him, arms wrapped around his neck, and his own arms were trembling from the intense exertion so he just rolled to the side, taking her with him.

For an indeterminate period of time they breathed together, Billy recovering from the effort, Abigail doubtless from near-drowning, their foreheads touching. He might even have pressed his lips against her head, he didn't know, he was hardly thinking straight. Her eyes were closed and she did not react. All he could hear was the rushing of the water still in his ears and the distant calls of displaced seabirds. She had a iron-like hold around his neck. After a while he peeled her arms, gently, away. "Hey. You're all right."

She let out a shuddering sob and whispered, "I thought I would drown."

He realized she was shivering, though the water hadn't been cold. He rubbed her arms from elbow to shoulder. "Got to get dried off."

Tonight's plans of hunting and a fire were going to have to be altered and expedited. She was in no shape to travel any more today, though it was only early afternoon. And he felt—well, a little unsteady himself yet.

Wait, the rum. Both of them needed it. He once again untangled her arms from his neck, loosened both knots at their waists and cast aside the rope, then crawled on his knees to the pack to rummage through its soggy contents for the unharmed bottle. He pulled out the stopper, took a long blistering swallow, and brought it to Abigail. He had no idea if she'd ever touched a drop of the stuff in her life, but he held it to her lips anyway and said firmly, "Drink." And she did, though she didn't manage more than a small gulp without going into a coughing fit. He helped her to sit up and patted her on the back. She drooped, rocking back against him. He set the bottle aside.

"I've got to make a fire," he said. "Let's get off the sand."

She took his arm and came with him up into the trees, to drier and higher land. He found her a spot to sit, retrieved the pack, scrounged a few rocks for a limited fire circle and then collected fallen sticks to burn. His flint and steel were intact for getting the fire started and before much longer he had a tidy blaze going. Abigail shifted near, holding out her hands. Billy set about making another rudimentary camp site, beginning with sticks and rope to lay everything over to dry—their spare clothing, blankets, the partly waterproof but impossibly heavy canvas.

He paused once everything was laid out, to assess what they'd lost. Mostly just food—the ship's biscuits had evaporated into mush, so what they had left was the preserved meat, no worse off for its salty bath. The parchment map was of course soggy, and most of its ink had blurred—good thing he'd taken the time to look at it. Billy picked up the bottle of rum and took another drink, offered some again to Abigail, but she declined, so he didn't press.

"May I see your knife?" she asked, in a thin but determined voice, startling him.

"Uhh...Can I help?"

"Just give it to me please." She extended her hand, palm up.

He withdrew the weapon from the sheath and brought it over, hilt first. The blade alone was longer than her forearm, and he had to swallow the urge to say _don't hurt yourself, _even though he would have meant the words in all seriousness, not mockery.

She took the knife delicately in her fingers, turned it over a few times, then turned it against her dress, mid-thigh.

For a moment it looked like she meant to cut the whole damn thing off and he was both scandalized and interested, unable to look away, but she was only slicing through the top layer of heavy fabric, which ripped readily under the sharpness of the blade. Methodically, she worked her way from one side of her body to the other, peeling the sodden fabric away as she went.

Billy knew he should probably find something else to do but he was riveted, and she hadn't looked up to tell him off, or to mind his own business, so he just stood there.

Abigail stood up, with the front of her dress half off, revealing the still opaque and ankle-length but considerably thinner under-skirt, and attempted to twist sideways to reach around to her back, but he got there first, retrieving the knife gently and swiftly from her hand. "You're gonna—cut yourself."

She looked at him now, and he did see trust in her eyes, which imparted a conflicting sense of both relief and burden. He sheathed the knife, put hands at her waist and turned her away from him, then tugged the remainder of the over-skirt away. It yielded, ripping effortlessly and falling to the side.

Still facing away, Abigail sighed in a breath, probably feeling physically lighter with the extra weight gone. He couldn't help himself then. He put up his hands to her hair, gathering it together and twisting, watching the water drip away from her back to the ground beneath. She let him do that, too. She might even be leaning back into the touch. There was nothing but the sound of the fire crackling and the water dripping from their scattered belongings, the water dripping from her hair onto his boots, trailing down his arms.

His throat was dry.

Stepping away took a considerable amount of self-control, especially since she didn't seem opposed to his hands in her hair. But he had to, because his next move would have been to turn her back around to face him again, and then after that he didn't know what he might've done.

So he let go. Said something incomprehensible about checking the area for game. And got away from her, before those brown eyes of hers, as she turned her head, could call him back.


	6. Journey I

Abigail was feeling quite ashamed of herself.

True, she had nearly drowned. The amount of salt and river water she'd inadvertently swallowed was proof enough of that. She had hardly been conscious of the moment that Billy had pulled her ashore. All she had known was the terror of not breathing, and then somehow it was possible again.

And when they'd collapsed on the shore, together, there was nothing in that to reprove. They'd both just _survived_. She remembered wrapping her arms around him unabashedly, but she'd _needed_ to feel something solid and true, no more the inconstancy and danger of water.

But after? She'd even reasoned that tearing half her dress off was now an obvious necessity if they were to endure further river crossings. And her legs remained covered so there was no excessive immodesty there. She was yet a lady behaving like a lady.

And then!—but then!—she'd let him put his hands on her and do something completely unnecessary, wring out her hair—something she could easily have done for herself, something that was a purely superficial inconvenience.

But his hands had felt so good in the tangled wet mass dripping down her back. Moving it off her skin, twisting it just enough to yield those pleasant tugs against her scalp. She had not, for a second, wanted him to stop.

She _had_ rather wanted to see his face, because she wasn't sure why he was doing it. (But she also hadn't cared as long as he continued.)

And that was not appropriate behavior whatsoever.

As soon as he'd said whatever he'd said about finding food and disappeared, she felt her cheeks redden with shame, thankful he wasn't there to see. And because she needed something to do, because she'd just sat, before, watching him look after all their things—she began to move around, picking up more dry wood, readjusting their clothes on the ropes, adding rocks to the limited fire circle so the blaze couldn't spread out of control.

She felt guilty, now, too, in addition to her shame, because instead of helping him, she'd been sitting, frozen. Numb. Just breathing had felt like it took all the strength she had.

_I won't be useless to him_, she vowed. _I won't let him carry me—literally or figuratively—all the rest of the way. If it kills me I won't_.

Once the campsite seemed suitably tidy, she peeled off her wet boots and rested them, and her stockings, by the fire, then curled her feet under her and sat near, only now beginning to notice the sounds of the wilderness. The wind in the stands of trees. The water still, not far off. And birdsong.

She had never spent much time out-of-doors in Carolina. The wilderness was too vast, too untamed, and her father had never endorsed even taking the air in the streets of Charlestown—even with soldiers about, and a healthy contingency of peace-minded settlers, he had warned her against mingling. She had always had a maid or one of her father's men as an escort when traveling anywhere. As a young girl she had vague memories of traveling by enclosed wagon to visit another city, but there too she had been sheltered, not allowed out.

So this, wherever they were, was new. Less exotic than Nassau, but new. And so was the sensation of being alone in the unbounded wild.

She hoped Billy hadn't gone too far. She was too proud to shout, but she hoped that he was close enough that he would hear, if she did.

Her boots were dry, and her altered dress nearly, by the time he returned. It wasn't terribly late, but the sun had receded behind a cloud cover. The fire was burning low. All of the nearby smaller wood had been scavenged, and what larger pieces she'd seen, she hadn't been able to wrestle free from the tangled undergrowth.

"There's wild pigs around," he announced, matter-of-factly, and at least he looked and sounded quite normal, without apparent awkwardness over their earlier interaction. "Don't know that I could get one, though. Never have tried to kill a pig."

"Goodness," Abigail murmured, having seen dead pigs hanging at the butcher's and imagining a fierce live one. "Did you have them on Nassau?"

"We did. They could even swim, actually. Lots of tracks here." He reached into a side bag at his hip and pulled out a handful of sea creatures, some still, some wiggling.

She tried not to react, though if he meant for her to eat them, he might well have to wait until she was starving.

"I was checking out the rocks and tide pools," he explained, jerking his head in the direction of the ocean. "Some of these we can eat raw. Or cook in the coals if you'd rather."

"I have no experience with them," Abigail said, shaking a vigorous denial. "I'm sure you know—what is best to do." She had to look away; the sight of the one still scrabbling was vaguely nauseating.

"Sorry." He realized, perhaps at the same time she did, that it was bothering her. "I'll deal with this then." He found a flat rock by the fire, and she took a quick stroll in the other direction, wondering if she had always had such a sensitive stomach, or if it was only all these new experiences that were setting it off. But if not being a burden to him meant suppressing some of her reactions, she had to try, so she made herself return within a few moments.

He plucked a shapeless bit of flesh from the hot rock and put it in his mouth, chewing without expression. "It's not bad, honestly."

"Do we still have meat left?"

He nodded. "But there'll be times we can't find anything, have to save it for then. Try this."

She looked at the piece he held out, swallowed, and told herself to be braver. Gingerly she took and slipped the bit in her own mouth. The taste was briny but not otherwise terrible; the texture was horrendous. She chewed, gagged involuntarily, watched his eyebrows draw together in concern (or amusement), and swallowed the rubbery bit.

"Not so bad, right?"

"I believe I would rather be hungry."

He shrugged. "It was all I could find, in the absence of sweet potatoes..."

Abigail smiled unwillingly at the reference. He could always, it seemed, make her smile. And she did like that, although, truth be told, it nearly always caught her off-guard. Her father, the only other man with whom she was familiar, was generally humorless, and she had assumed that all men must be, by dint of their larger concerns?

Less and less, she realized, was she agreeing with the comment she'd flung at him that first day aboard ship about their similarities.

"Please," she said, "Go ahead and eat it all, if you care to. I find I'm still somewhat...unsettled. Oh. You said yesterday—" she shuffled her feet, recalling the heat of their discussion at the time—"I might see the map?"

He pointed to the pack. "Not very readable any more."

Abigail retrieved the blurred, still-damp parchment, and kneeling on the ground, smoothed it out.

"So," she said, still seeing the approximate shape of rivers and a few black dots scattered here and there, punctuated by illegible scrawls—"We are lost?"

"I studied it last night," Billy said casually. "Don't worry."

"But...but show me." She rose and brought the parchment over to him, standing where he crouched by the fire. "Show me."

He sighed and pointed to the forked blurs at the bottom. "That's what we just crossed." To the black dot over to the left side, west. "Savannah." He lingered there for an instant and then drew a long path northwest near to the top of the paper, where there was another black blur. "Charlestown."

The finality in his voice was answer enough that that was their destination now, if there had been any doubt. She wanted to give him a rapturous hug and forgive him, in actions if not in words, for not always having intended to get her there, and for the subterfuge involved in getting this far.

But it seemed right to pretend, maybe even for his sake if he was still struggling with the decision, that really nothing at all had happened. So she reached for the paper back, smoothed it out once more and returned it to the pack, suppressing her pleasure.

And some time later, after he had gone in search of more wood and when he went to make the shelter, Abigail asked if she might help. He seemed surprised, but acquiesced, and showed her how since they already had the canvas stretched over a line, it only remained to stretch out the ends and stake them. A simple enough task, once explained, and though her side was considerably more wrinkled and slack than his, she beamed anyway, once finished.

Afterwards, they sat together by the fire, watching the sun as it set, and then Billy produced a length of rope and illustrated some different knots for her to try. Abigail managed several of the simpler ones, but couldn't recreate any of the more complicated versions, even when he stopped her and pointed out just where she was going wrong. Over, not under. Through the second loop and then right, not left. They also had a dizzying array of labels. Eventually she let the rope fall in her lap with a tired laugh. "I can't see any more."

"Time to sleep then," he agreed, running a hand along the back of his shoulders, and wincing. She noticed.

"_You _must be tired," she ventured, thinking of the struggle through the water. He made a sound of assent, and rose, peeled her blanket off the other line and passed it to her. The fabric was dry and warm and she pressed it to her body.

"Want some bug grease?" he said, producing the item.

"Ugh," she answered. Not really a sound that well-brought-up ladies made, but it summed up how she felt about the idea of the concoction going on her skin again. Still, there was no denying it had worked last night, and she could already hear the whine of insects that would no doubt descend upon them once the fire burned out. "That is, yes."

He smiled and merely handed it to her this time, and she applied it with grim determination, smoothing her cheeks with her fingers.

"Goodnight," she said, feeling sorry to leave him out there. This night was different. Last night she had still been very angry, but this day they had struggled together. _He_ had kept her alive. At risk to himself. Not that she felt he deserved anything for that—other than gratitude and respect of course—but it felt less like partnership and more like an assumption of status, to retreat to the confines of the tent, leaving him to face the darkness on his own.

She laid her blanket out and gazed at the shadows of the fire through the canvas for a while, as the feelings of guilt, over confusion about what was truly the _right_ thing to do, lingered.

"Go to sleep," he said, gently, across the space between them.

Could he feel it, could he sense her ambivalence?

Abigail settled down on the ground, and despite her questioning mind, her overworked body yielded fairly quickly.

* * *

The morning dawned overcast. Abigail's stomach reminded her that she'd taken no sustenance in probably an entire day. She crawled to the open end and saw that Billy was dispersing the ashes about, using his boot to eliminate the remainder of curling smoke sifting up from the grasses. He was eating some jerky and came over without comment to give her a piece. She took the offering gratefully, its peppery texture more familiar than anything else thus far.

"Just a lot of hiking today," he said. "Don't think there are any water crossings."

Abigail sent up a fervent word of thanks for _that_. She felt far more confident of her ability to manage a long trek if there was no more swimming involved. She was already liking the lightness of her body with the extra layer of skirt gone. How freeing must it be to wear pants like a man! That thought did make her embarrassed, but she couldn't help imagining it.

Finishing the piece of jerky, she stood up. Though he held out another, she shook her head, remembering the caution of yesterday. She rolled up her blanket, then began to undo her side of the tent's knots. Billy would have to do his. They worked in amicable silence, untying the ropes, squaring the canvas between them and turning it to a tight bundle, packing everything away.

Then he looked at her. "No sun," he said. "Which way feels right?"

She hesitated, scanning the sky, listening to the sound of the river behind them. Tentatively, she pointed in the approximate direction that seemed correct.

"Not bad," he acknowledged. "I'd say like..." he moved her outstretched arm a fraction to the left.

"How could you know—"

His mouth quirked a little and she realized he was teasing. She swatted his hand away, but with a laugh.

The sun did not come out at any point during that day of travel; the sky remained gray and echoed with occasional sounds of distant thunder. Abigail was happy that it was not raining. She followed in Billy's footsteps through all manner of marsh, flat-lands, and forest, to the point that when they stopped for breaks and she would close her eyes momentarily, all she could see were his boots in her mind's eye. The walking was tiring, no doubt about it, but her footwear was holding up though always muddy and often wet after crossing a marsh.

They saw and heard no end of game and wildlife; grouse scattering through the trees, herds of deer in the distance. (She almost stepped on a snake at one point and screamed; it was small comfort that Billy said that the vile creature didn't look poisonous). They were able to cover, to her mind at least, a good deal of territory that day, though she decided she wouldn't ask what he thought about how far they'd come just in case the answer wasn't favorable.

It began to threaten rain by early evening, while still light, and when Billy pointed out the oncoming weather she agreed it made sense to stop. They were on higher ground, surrounded by dense forest, and there were plenty of spots to set up the canvas. Billy kept checking the sky, and working quickly.

Abigail tried to keep up. The air was cool and it would have been nice to have another fire, but she didn't think the weather would allow for one. The first few drops of rain began just as he was double-checking her knots. "Better get inside," he called over the stirring wind.

Abigail had already wrapped her blanket around her shoulders to ward off the wet, and she squirmed under the canvas. Billy leaned in at the one open end—they'd built it against an overhanging rock—and shoved the pack under to keep dry.

"What about you?" She peered up at him anxiously.

He hesitated a moment, his eyelashes blinking against the rain. "There's no room."

But there was, and she knew he didn't want to be out there any more than she did. "No, you must!" The canvas was the only waterproof item they had, he didn't even have some type of cloak or coat.

He looked doubtful a few heartbeats longer, glanced up at the sky again and then capitulated. She slid her feet sideways to make space for him, realizing, once he was right there—all of him—there really _was _very little room. He cast her a rather sheepish glance, as if he thought it his fault he was so well-grown. _ Heavens, the man does have a massive chest._ _And arms, and_...she ducked her head, bringing her knees up to her body.

The rain splattered against the canvas, coming down stronger. The light was disappearing quickly, and with its departure, a chilly damp to the air. Abigail squirmed on her knees to the pack, figuring the less moving around Billy had to do, the better, he was likely to bring the tent down on top of them if he moved too much—and retrieved the other blanket roll, passing it to him.

"It will be hours till morning," she said a little faintly, suddenly overwhelmed by the thought of being in such close quarters until then, even though it had been her idea.

"Maybe it'll stop before then." He craned his neck. The topmost pole wasn't quite high enough for him to sit upright without touching.

"Do you think so?"

"No," he said, frankly. "But it might."

He reached out suddenly in her direction, and she squeaked in alarm, thinking he was plucking a creature or some other horror from her hair or shoulder, and then felt silly when he gave her a calm look and adjusted the canvas behind her, where it had been sinking inwards.

"I scared you, sorry."

"I only thought you saw something on me," she said with a degree of sulkiness, tightening her grip on the blanket around her neck.

"Another of those snakes?"

"Don't remind me." She closed her eyes momentarily.

"If you lie like this," he said, carving a shape in the air with his hand, "I can be at the front here, and everything'll have to come past me to get to you."

"I shouldn't like you to be poisoned either. I daresay I should not survive very long out here on my own."

Billy looked at her for a moment without comment and there was a warmth in his gaze that made her feel fidgety. "Don't know about that. I recall you saying something back at the beach, about being able to handle more than I thought you could?"

Abigail wiggled her toes in their stockings, tucked under her dress, suddenly shy.

"_Speaking_ of the beach," he said, "you said some other things."

She rested her chin on her knees and blinked at him, rather wishing the roof would collapse with water and they would have to deal with that, effectively putting off this conversation for yet another time.

"And I guess," he continued when she still remained mute, "I guess I've been waiting for you to bring it up again. But you—haven't."

"There's been...no time for talking," she protested, which wasn't really very true, and it sounded hollow even to her.

He made a show of looking all around the narrow confines of the canvas walls, a procedure which took but a moment, and then directly back at her. "We have all night."

This embarrassed her and she shot back, "We need to sleep."

He blinked with patience. "Are you going to sleep right now?"

"I suppose not."

"So, we should talk."

"Very well," she said, haughtily. "You may talk. You _are_ talking. Quite a lot."

"Then it's your turn now."

Well, she'd set that up for him nicely, she supposed, chiding herself mentally. "What do you wish me to say?"

His gaze was still patient, ingenuous. "What you said before. On the beach. About getting married, or pretending to."

"I...I don't remember half the things I said, I was angry, I scarcely knew what I was saying." _Why_ did he need to bring this up right now, in the middle of the pouring rain and dark, when neither of them could get away from the other?

He put a hand up to his jaw, fitting thumb and forefinger over the curve of his upper lip, pensive. "So you didn't mean any of that."

"I don't...I don't know." She tried to recall what she'd said—it wasn't entirely untrue, she'd been so overwhelmed at the time, with getting off the ship and thinking she was home or near home, only to find out that it wasn't so at all. "I was desperate."

"You were—desperate," he repeated.

"Yes! Of course I was."

"I guess you would have to be desperate to introduce me to your father as someone you married."

Abigail felt her mouth form a circle. "Why—_you_ were the one who thought it was a joke."

"Well, it is. It is! It still is."

"What?" she demanded helplessly, not understanding any of this. Not understanding what they were even talking about, what he was trying to say, why he sounded bitter and frustrated all of a sudden.

"Look, I'm just—" Lines appeared in his forehead and he exhaled. "I'm just tired. Let's forget—"

"Oh, no. No! You started this, and now you don't want to talk any longer? There are no ship duties to escape to _here,_ my good man. See this through."

This surprised both of them, and they stared at each other for a few moments.

"You know you're pretty demanding, sweet potatoes," he said, quietly.

What a ridiculous nickname, and yet, imbued with a degree of tenderness, it made her stomach warm in that way thus far only he had managed to make happen. She decided the safest thing was not to address that, and murmured only, "I don't believe I have ever been called demanding before."

"I never said I didn't like it." He reached out and twitched hair away from her face. This was definitely not the direction she had envisioned the conversation taking, and she tried to think how to get it back to whatever it had been.

_Marriage, actually. Real or imagined_.

_Oh dear_.

_Billy, stop looking at me as if you..._

_ As if I what? imaginary Billy asked._

_ As if you love me._

Was that what it looked like? Was this what it felt like?

She had no answers, for herself or for anyone else.

"I think," she said, clearing her throat, "the safest thing is to have a plan for when we reach the city."

"Better to have a plan than not," Billy agreed blandly.

"And it might seem—ill-advised, or unnecessary to you, but I know my father. He will not consider my reputation untarnished, regardless of what I tell him. And he will give you the money for my safe return. Which you must—" he had opened his mouth to say something "—you _will _take in payment for all of this. And so—I'm only asking you to let me...to let me handle it, however I need to."

"That's leaving out a lot of details."

"Well, perhaps you can trust me, as I am trusting you."

He considered that, and accorded it with a nod.

"And _now_," she said, drawing a breath and feeling as if she'd won some kind of tiny victory, though nothing had materially changed, "perhaps we can get our sleep."

She wriggled to the top of the tent, remembering how he'd indicated he would cover the entrance, and settled with her back to the pack and the rock behind it. This left the remaining four or five feet for him, which was adequate as long as he stayed upright.

But at some point in the night she struggled awake, stiff and cold and, she realized when she wriggled in the blanket cocoon, wet. Pulling it off and feeling around she discovered a rivulet of water had been coming through but only down one side of her back, which explained why Billy hadn't noticed it yet. He was within arms' reach, barely visible in the dark but since he was lying down, surely at least his boots were sticking out of the tent. She wriggled, trying to get comfortable. Her side ached. She didn't mean to wake him, but he woke anyway, mumbling an inquiry.

"My blanket's wet," she fretted.

She felt his hand on her and he made a sound of vague irritation. A moment later and he had rolled her out of it and pulled her over to him, tucking his blanket around both of them. The shock of the cold air hitting her legs rendered her momentarily unresisting, and by the time she realized what was happening, it was done. And the immediate warmth of his dry body and warm blanket eliminated any desire to protest and pull away.

Still, it was—She was lying in his arms, her head pillowed against a warm shoulder, the rough fabric of his shirt smelling like the trees.

"Billy," she whispered, a protest of sorts.

"Shh," he mumbled over her head. She felt his arm come over her, his elbow resting lightly on her hip, his forearm against her back. "Dry."

And that she couldn't argue with. The rain continued overhead. Her side still ached, but there was nothing as comfortable as his shoulder supporting her head, the warmth of his limbs touching hers. She closed her eyes, purely content.


	7. Journey II

They must have moved around a lot in the dark, that was all Billy could conclude when he opened his eyes sometime in the morning to notice that first, the rain had ceased, and second, his face was somewhere against Abigail's stomach. He could hear simultaneously her heartbeat and her belly grumbling with emptiness. For a time, he didn't move. Her leg was—against his arm? And one of her arms was sort of slung over his head, holding him where he was.

She was _very_ soft. Everything that was touching him was soft and warm. He angled his head a little, experimentally, encountering her bodice. _Pretty sure you should get your face out of there, Bones_. _ She's gonna wake up and kick you any minute now, and you'll deserve it._ But...it was nice. Self-denial had been a habit for a long time, but he didn't care to exercise it at this particular moment.

Her hand fluttered against him, found his head, stopped at the roughness of his jaw. Felt it curiously for a moment, then her body stiffened.

He closed his eyes, anticipating the kick, or at least a push away. But she held still, though her muscles were taut.

"Are you awake?" she asked barely audibly.

"Mm."

"What are—what are you doing?"

"Nothing," he said, raising his head and looking past the swell of her bodice at her. "It's nice. Uh, you're warm." He winced in sure anticipation of a slap now. But she merely drew her brows together, pulled her leg away from him, and rolled away, taking most of the blanket with her.

He leaned on his elbow, regarding her shape. "Are you...angry?"

She was quiet for an instant and then murmured, "Not if you didn't take any liberties."

He debated whether he had or not. Probably.

Definitely.

She turned her head and looked at him. He offered a tentative smile in the face of her blank expression.

"It's all right," she said. "I was cold."

"And wet," he supplied. "All down your—"

"Yes, thank you."

"Back."

She maintained a stately silence.

"We should practice your knots again maybe because that was the side you tied," he offered.

Abigail did not seem to have an opinion on that.

Time to get up. Well, time to give her some space, at least. Billy put aside the remainder of his blanket, then slid out of the tent, stretching into the damp morning air. The trees were still dripping, but the rain had certainly stopped, and the skies showed signs of possibly clearing.

Their waterbag was almost empty. Though there had been a clear-flowing river on the way up the slope yesterday, in their haste to get set up before the rain he hadn't stopped to refill it. Now he debated going back down, perhaps trying to fish. He didn't like to leave Abigail alone, but she seemed to be going back to sleep, and they did need food. Rather badly.

He set off at a jog, cutting across the slope at a sharp angle downwards to reduce the amount of time he'd be gone, and came out where the trees thinned and revealed the wide, shallow river winding through gravel flats below. He also saw, almost the moment he came out of the trees, a figure on horseback approaching the river too.

For a moment he cursed his unwary approach. The past few days of solitude and silence had rather made him think the wilderness was utterly desolate, there hadn't been any tracks or sign of other humans or habitation. But it was too late to seek cover now; the rider had obviously spotted him, pulling up his horse for a moment, then continuing onward at a slower pace.

Billy approached the water, knelt on the gravel and quickly filled the waterbag, then rose. He probably still could have retreated in time, the horse wouldn't be able to follow him up through the shortcut he'd taken. But he was curious.

The rider came within hailing distance. He put up a black-gloved hand. He was all in black, in fact, even to his wide-brimmed hat. The horse was making wary snuffing sounds.

Hand on knife hilt, Billy evaluated the new arrival. The man was pulling out a battered cross necklace from the folds of his cloak—someone of the cloth, or, pretending to be—and saying "Hello, friend," in a cautious deep voice.

"Well met," Billy answered, with an equal amount of caution.

"'Tis strange to see a white face hereabouts." The other's was wrinkled. He was elderly.

"Are there natives? I haven't seen sign."

"Oh, they don't leave much. That's how they are. They're about, no doubt of that. Where are you headed?"

"Charlestown. And you?"

"Home, outside Savannah. I minister to the Creeks, when they let me. I'm Father Collins."

"Father," Billy said, tilting his head. He didn't know if there was a more proper greeting, but that would surely do, out here in the middle of nowhere.

"Are you traveling alone, lad? And on foot?"

"My wife's just up the hill." He didn't know why he said that, wanted to hear the sound of it maybe.

"Shouldn't leave her alone for long," Collins' eyebrows drew together.

"Wasn't going to. I came down to look for fish. We've not much in the way of food left."

"Well, that will not do. Easy," he cautioned the horse as it sidestepped when he turned in the saddle and began rummaging through a side pack. Billy hesitated, pride nudging him to refuse any offers of charity. If he'd already caught the fish, at least he could trade.

Collins held out a wrapped pack. "Corncakes. The natives make them. Bland, but they'll fill your stomach."

"I don't want to take your food, Father."

"I have more than enough. And I'm two days from home at most."

When he still couldn't bring himself to take them, Collins regarded him with a kindly but keen eye. "For your woman," he said, still extending the package.

That won him, he couldn't deny it. Getting a fire going in this damp to cook still-uncaptured fish could take hours. "Thank you," he said, accepting it.

"Must be another week to get to Charlestown, on foot?"

"About that."

"Well, God's blessings on you both. Travel safely."

"Uh, and you."

The man clicked to his horse and turned it aside, continued on downstream, with a wave of his hand. Billy watched them till they were out of sight, mixed feelings of gratitude and dislike of having accepted something for nothing. But it had been for Abigail's sake. And now he'd best get back to her. He drank water quickly, refilled the bag, then headed back up the hill at a run, vaulting over fallen trees and climbing rocks until he reached their camp-spot. The area was still silent and it was with some relief that he checked the tent and saw her quiet and softly breathing under the blanket. He found a dry spot to sit and unwrapped the food, consuming two of the salty flat offerings in quick succession.

Abigail stirred in the tent and a moment later said sleepily, "Are you _eating_ something?"

"Mm. Come have some."

She rustled her way to the opening, peered out, and hobbled over in a rush, taking the food hungrily out of his hands. She ate three of the corncakes while he smiled at her, pleased, before she asked around a mouthful, "Where did they come from?"

"Ran into someone at the river." He passed her the waterbag.

Abigail took a drink and her eyes rounded. "We haven't seen anybody. I was beginning to think we weren't going to."

"Well, he said we're not alone out here."

She swallowed her last bite and gazed at him soberly. "And you left me."

"It wasn't far. I would've heard you if you called." Though he knew he wouldn't take that chance again, either.

"Those were delicious," she said, looking at the remaining stack of corncakes.

"I'll hunt something tonight. We'll have a fire if things dry up. I wasn't going to let you starve."

"I know," she said, sounding surprised.

Mollified, he tucked away the remainder of the food in its wrapping, and rose. Time to strike camp.

They travelled without further rain except for a downpour in the early afternoon, which cleared again shortly thereafter. Another river crossing proved necessary, but this one was far easier; Billy went through first and determined its depth, which turned out only to be around four feet. And then, from the opposite side, Abigail changed clothing in the bushes and rested while he checked for fish, which were plentiful. He caught three small ones in quick succession, strung them on a loop to carry along, and they resumed walking. The lack of sun did make it difficult to be certain about direction, but for Abigail's sake he maintained confidence whenever she expressed doubts, which she did only once.

They covered a good deal of ground again that day with nothing more eventful than hearing and subsequently coming across some of the wild pigs. Billy contemplated attempting to kill one, but this variety appeared even larger and fiercer than their Bahamian cousins, and Abigail pleaded with him not to try, arguing that they weren't desperate for food and so much of the meat would go to waste before they could possibly consume it. To which argument he yielded. He didn't tell her so, but he'd seen a man laid open from navel to gullet from the tusks of one of the beasts. So they bypassed the herd and lunched instead on more of the corncakes.

By evening, the sky was clear enough to see the downward passage of the sun, and they set up tent among a stand of trees. Billy prepared the fish some distance away and buried the leavings, not wanting to be woken by predators looking for food, then brought them back to the campsite, approved Abigail's knots, and got the fire going. He found a stone flat on one side and wedged it in by the edge of the blaze to get warm, and laid the fish flesh along it to cook. Abigail knelt beside him by the fire, watching their dinner's progress. He gave her his cleaned knife to use to scrape the whitened bits away, and then found some broad leaves to contain them.

They ate side by side, facing west.

"Thank you for this," she said, picking delicately at her palmful of bits and gazing out at the darkening sky. "For preparing it, too. I don't believe I would have had the stomach to clean them."

"No trouble. Easier than dealing with the pigs."

"Ugh, wretched snorting things."

"They do taste good, though." He reached out and scraped the last fillet away from the stone, as it was starting to char. "Want this?"

"No, you must have it."

"I must?" He put half the piece in his mouth. It dissolved into nothing, all hot flakes. He held out the remainder invitingly. Just close enough to make her lean if she wanted.

For a moment she looked at him. He'd offered her food before, just not this obvious an invitation to take it with her mouth.

"Are you trying to embarrass me?" she inquired, tilting her head.

"No," he said, partially lying. "Want me to?"

"You have always been free to say what you will," Abigail replied. "I see no reason that you would hold back _now_."

He shifted closer to her. She held her ground. He brought his fingers close to her mouth, watching her face to make sure she wasn't showing any signs of truly being overawed, because if he thought she was, he would stop. Teasing was supposed to be fun, after all.

She suddenly gasped, and he was caught, whipping his head to the side to see what it was, in the same moment wondering how he could have been caught off his guard like that—

And the bit of food disappeared and she was giggling as she chewed, putting a hand over her mouth.

He laughed, too, a bit in disbelief but also pleased surprise at her sauciness. Yielding to an impulse and getting up, he retrieved the bottle of rum from the pack and sat back down beside her. "Have a drink with me."

Her face sobered. "I...I really don't know how."

"It's easy, we take turns until we want to stop," he said, lightly.

"I mean I never—before you gave me some at the river, I never had spirits of any kind."

He took a drink and then said, "Well if you don't want to, I won't insist. There is good rum and bad, and it's a pity to waste the good."

"I will try," Abigail said, sitting up straighter on her knees.

With a smile, he passed her the bottle. She took it, stared at it a moment, then lifted the container tentatively to her lips for a taste.

"It's very—" She coughed again after swallowing.

"You get used to it."

"Do you drink a great deal?" she asked, uncertainly.

He was in the middle of a corresponding swig and had to put it down to laugh again. "Er, no. Not if you believe my shipmates. According to them I never drink."

"My father occasionally has his whisky, with dinner, or with friends," Abigail said, "but of course I was not a participant at such events."

"You didn't eat dinner with your father?"

"Infrequently...He was usually with his friends. It wouldn't have been appropriate," Abigail said, sounding like a child imitating something she'd heard an elder say.

"Seems strange." He offered the bottle back to her.

"Why?" She took a longer drink this time.

"Family should be together. Or what's the point?"

"I suppose so. I suppose we would have been, had my mother...had she lived."

"Must have been lonely for you."

"I had a governess," Abigail said, "but yes. I was often lonely." She hung on to the bottle and took a third drink without passing it back. He eyed her, then decided not to say anything. If anyone deserved a night to relax, she did.

He reached for the stick they'd been using to tend the fire and poked it into life again; the flames had been dying low. The dark was encroaching with the sun's descent. For a time they were both silent, looking at the fire.

"It _does_ get better," Abigail said with surprise.

"Whoa, easy there, sweet potatoes." He shot her a glance and deftly removed the bottle from her hand, holding it to the fire to see through the darkened glass how much was gone. "Keep that up and you're not going to want to face tomorrow."

"I feel warm," she announced.

"Yeah." He took a swallow. "I guess I can sleep outside then tonight, right?"

"You," she said, waving her arm, "can sleep anywhere it pleases you, Mr. Bones. I do not care in the least—" she measured thumb and forefinger and peered at him through them "—amount."

"Right." He held the rum out of reach when she leaned towards him. She frowned, and leaned harder, and he almost dropped the bottle putting his other hand out to stop her from falling over. "Are you, uh, tired? You seem like you might be getting tired."

"I am not remotely tired," she said, straightening and gazing down her nose at him. "Do share some more of that concoction with me."

He took a cautious sip, watching her. "Last one, all right?"

She nodded regally.

"All right," he said, and passed it over, with the stopper.

She took a long draft, too long for his liking but it was already done, and closed it up. Then held the bottle to her chest.

He snapped his fingers and extended a hand.

"Do not snap your fingers at me, I am no dog," Abigail objected. He still held out his hand, and she pushed it away.

He caught her arm, patiently, and pulled her close enough to take the bottle from her, and standing, put it away. She leapt up too, slapping in a fractious manner at his shoulder again.

"You can hit me all you want, you're not having any more," he said, half-laughing until he realized she really was mad. Well, drunk and mad, sometimes it was hard to tell the difference, and since she'd never had the stuff before, it was hard to know how it was going to make her behave. Or feel.

"Hey," he said, gently. "Who are you angry at?" Maybe he should have asked, w_hat are you sad about, _since by the way her eyes were glittering in the firelight he could see she was as close to tears as temper.

"You." She took a couple of steps towards him, really just walked right into him, while he stood and absorbed the impact of her body banging into his. He kept his arms still, at his side, and she brought her fists up and pounded on his chest.

It didn't hurt, not the way the look of misery on her face did.

"What'd I do?" he said. "Tell me what to stop, I'll stop."

"I don't _know_ what you did," she half-sobbed against him, giving a last few ineffectual thumps. He waited a moment longer and then put his arms around her, feeling her body stiff and inflexible for a half-dozen heartbeats before it began to soften. And then she wrapped her arms around his neck and stared up at him.

_Christ._ He didn't know what to do with that. Well in fact he had all kinds of ideas but he didn't know if any of them would be right. She looked quite like she wanted to be kissed but he was damned if that was a good idea, she wasn't his for such an act and she was probably only looking so because of the spirits. And all he could think about was tomorrow and the day after and how they were going to travel together if he kissed her right now. How was he even going to _sleep_ tonight if he kissed her right now.

"Billy." Her breath drifting to his neck, making his spine tingle and carrying with it the faintest sweet remainder of rum, and dammit, she wasn't making this easier on him. "Kiss me."

"I _can't_."

"Why?" She frowned so prettily.

He turned his head and exhaled for steadiness. "You aren't sober and you'll be angry tomorrow."

"You just don't want to."

What he _wanted_ to do was bite that lower lip of hers, the way it was pouting at him. Instead he breathed through the feeling, the way you breathed through pain—it was pain of a sort, wasn't it—and took her face in his hands. "Abigail. Believe me, I want to."

She blinked. Her eyes had a light of their own.

_Dammit, fuck, Jesus_. He was a little bit in love with her. Maybe more than a little.

This was a problem.

He took her wrists and unfolded her arms from around his neck, holding them together in front of her, wrapping his hands around her fists. "Go in the tent."

"Are you coming with me?"

He didn't know exactly what she was offering by that and she likely didn't know either, but regardless, he said firmly, "No."

Abigail nodded, suddenly seeming vague, and as he let her go, she turned, then dashed towards the bushes and was quite promptly sick.

He winced, but felt pretty validated all the same. He knew she'd be wretched and wouldn't want him now, but he brought over the water bag anyway, waited until she stopped retching, then leaned over with it just in her line of vision, advising her quietly to have some.

She was on her knees, slumped forward, making little sounds of misery.

"It'll be better now," he said, sympathetic. Hopefully this meant the coming morning wouldn't be so rough.

Eventually she took the water and had some, then half-crawled, though he tried to help her—she made protesting noises—the rest of the way to the tent, there to disappear and be silent.

He returned to his spot by the fire, pressing thumbs against forehead in an attempt to relieve the sensation of building pressure in his skull, and pretended that just being here was all he needed to do, and that he didn't need to think about any of it. It wasn't working. He felt restless enough to run into the night—not that he wanted to leave her...not that he could see bringing her with him. And the sea, the sea seemed very far away, but it was calling him back, promising to return his life to him with no complications.

What was the right thing to do?

He stared into the fire for a long time that night looking for answers which didn't come.

* * *

A touch on his shoulder, and he was pulled out of a dream to wakefulness. The light was strong already. Abigail was crouching by him, her eyebrows drawn. "I wanted to let you sleep," she said, "but the day is getting on..."

He grunted and passed a hand over his eyes. The dream had been one of vivid imagination about how bringing her to Charlestown had gone. Not well. _Hasn't happened yet_, he told himself, and sat upright, watching her warily to see how she looked this morning. Perhaps a little tired.

She lowered her eyelids. "I apologize for last night."

He shook his head. "Nothing to be sorry about. How are you feeling?"

"All right, I...I seem to be back to normal, but I _am_ sorry. I behaved quite inexcusably."

"Drink does strange things to people," he said. "I see it all the time." Looking around, he saw she'd already taken down the canvas and untied the ropes, and packed it as neatly as he would've. He wanted to issue verbal approval, but she already felt self-conscious enough no doubt, so maybe next time. He found the water, drank, and had a couple of corncakes. She said she'd already had hers, which he thought about challenging since the remainder didn't seem to add up to indicate that, but in the end didn't press. If her stomach was still queasy it didn't make sense to fill it.

They left the site shortly thereafter and commenced their fourth full day of travel.

There were no bodies of water to cross that day, no water at all in fact but a few murky streams that he hesitated to drink from, and so they had to ration what was left from a previous fill. He spent the evening hunting and came up with some small game, so at least they ate well that evening, and had food for the morning.

Billy was fairly sure, according to his memory and the remaining scratches on the map, that since roughly half of the journey was behind them, they were supposed to have encountered another major river by now. But the lack of fresh water made him concerned they were straying too far north. The following morning he used the sun to help guide them on a stronger angle towards the east. They could never get terribly lost going east, as the ocean lay that way—that would be merely a matter of adding time and trouble to the journey as it would require more river crossings. But if he led them too far north or west into the true wilderness, then who knew what they might find. He was already far enough from the sea for comfort as it was.

So it was with considerable relief that sometime in the late afternoon of the fifth day they finally came upon reliably clean water again, upon the banks of the river he suspected was the one he'd been looking for. They were both quite dehydrated, and grubby from travel, and Abigail sank into the shallow water with a grateful sigh, scrubbing hands and then cupping them to scoop upstream water into her mouth.

He was no less pleased, though it was tempered with the knowledge that going on for much longer wouldn't have been possible, and that he had, unbeknownst to Abigail, been depriving himself so that there was more for her. He figured he was better able to withstand the effects of mild dehydration, having experienced it many a time aboard ship in the past. Now, he was feeling the tiredness, the headache, well settled in him.

He dropped their supplies at the base of a big tree, made himself kneel by the water's edge, drink, splash some water on the back of his neck and fill up their waterbag. Then he moved back to the tree and stretched out in its shade.

Eventually, Abigail emerged from the water, and he heard her humming as she changed into her dry things in the bushes nearby. She rejoined him, flopping down at his side with a sigh. "My hair is impossible," she remarked. "I shall have to cut it all off."

He made a languid sound, having closed his eyes. He felt her hand on his forehead. "Billy? Are you well?"

"Just tired." Her hand, cool from the river water, felt ridiculously good. He put his own hand over hers to prevent her from moving it away.

She shifted to accommodate, but when he opened his eyes he saw the concern in hers.

"Too much sun," he said, by way of explanation.

"You must rest." Abigail rummaged around in their pack and found one of the blankets which she rolled and tucked under his head as she knelt beside him. "We still have dried meat left, that will do for our food tonight."

He wanted to argue that they should cover more ground today, but maybe she was right. He certainly didn't feel like shouldering the pack again and resuming the trail. He closed his eyes.

After a few moments, her hand returned to his forehead, running gently across his skin, along his cheekbones. He wasn't sure what she was doing, but it felt good, so he had no intention of telling her to stop. She was humming softly again, and he turned his face toward her, seeking the attention.

"Your head hurts, doesn't it," she murmured.

He made a sound of assent.

"Poor thing."

That made him chuckle roughly, when had he ever been thus sympathized with, and over a bit of dehydration no less, but not displeased. Her comfort was unfamiliar, he didn't know she had it to give, didn't even really know what it was, entirely—but utterly welcome.

"No one ever looks after you, do they?" Abigail continued.

"I look after myself," he mumbled.

"But isn't this nicer?"

There was nothing to argue in that. Except of course for how very vulnerable it made him.

"What about when you were young?" she persisted.

He was quiet, thinking. His mind typically didn't return to those days. What was the point? They were gone, there was no getting them back. There was a curtain drawn he didn't care to look behind. Maybe more _beyond_ the curtain, something more defensible.

"I don't remember," he said, at last.

"Really?"

He tried to resist the feeling of defensiveness. Of course he remembered, but it was from another life. Someone else's life. "You said you didn't remember things either."

She sighed. "Well, I...that's different."

"How, because it just happened?"

"I don't know—because it was horrible—but I can't imagine not remembering where I came from."

"Where you come from's not always good."

"It hurts me to think you don't have any happy memories," Abigail said, and he could hear the soft sadness in her voice.

"Why," he said, succumbing to the impulse of the directly impertinent question.

She took a long breath and held it for a few counts, her hands stilling. He opened his eyes and looked up at her face above him.

"Because I care about you."

Christ, it was bad enough how he felt about her, now she was telling him something close to the same thing? He tried to think his way around that, couldn't. Settled for saying, "Be better if you didn't." Which of course, as soon as he'd said it, seemed like the wrong reply.

But she didn't get angry, at least she didn't look angry, still maybe just sad, which wasn't great either, and said, "You don't get to choose how I feel about anything."

"Yeah," he said. His headache was coming back. Fuck it. He lifted his head and rested it on her knee, angling to seek her touch again.


	8. Journey III

Once Billy had fallen asleep, his head in her lap, Abigail gingerly removed herself, sliding the blanket roll under his neck and making soothing sounds when he stirred. She had not yet seen him so languid, so disinclined to move, and that was worrisome. She had no idea what to do for him if he became truly ill, and the things that might be instinctive—making hot tea, for instance—weren't at her disposal here. She was just grateful it wasn't cold; he seemed too hot if anything. She must make him drink more water when he awoke. Perhaps give him a taste of the remaining rum (much as she couldn't imagine ever wanting to taste the stuff again. No wonder such things were called the devil's drink).

She straightened, and began to unroll the canvas, thinking it might be possible to construct it herself for the first time. The material was heavy and unwieldy, but she had the basic grasp of how the structure went. Once it was laid flat, she began to search the area for the sturdy sticks needed for support. She found several at once, but the remaining few eluded her. It wasn't until she wandered a ways, still within earshot of Billy but out of sight, that she unearthed two more straight branches. She stooped, preparing to break some excess foliage off them before dragging them back, when she spotted something in the ferns beyond. A crouching, dark-skinned figure.

The shock of seeing a human, any other human for the first time in a week, rooted her to the spot. She almost called out. They were mostly obscured by distance and the bushes, and in appearance neither strikingly man nor woman. Primarily silent and scrutinizing.

Abigail swallowed, uncertain if she were in danger or not. She only saw one being, but what if there were many? Were she to run, at that angle they could cut her off before she got back to Billy by the tree. She was a fool to have come this far. She knew nothing about any of the natives that were said to roam the Carolinas. At home, her father stopped any and all such discussions that were occurring as soon as she walked into a room where they might have been the topic of commentary. Nor did he entertain her questions about them, as with many other matters that ladies were apparently not supposed to bring up.

And now, of course, she wished she knew even the slightest bit of information. Oh, if only Billy would materialize beside her. Should she scream for him? Would that anger or alarm them, provoke them to attack where if she had stayed silent, they might not have moved either?

She straightened, gripping one of the branches so tightly that she lost sensation in her fingers. She _would_ scream, if they but made a move. No one was going to take her prisoner again. _Ever._ She hoisted the branch to her shoulder, like a soldier with a rifle, and took a cautious, sideways step, and then another.

The other continued to watch her, she felt their eyes as she moved, but did not appear to be following. Abigail took step after step until she had cut off the angle between them, then dropped the stick, gathered her skirts and fled through the remainder of the trees until she reached Billy's side, where she fell on him in a panic, gripping his arm and bringing him awake.

"There's someone," she half-whimpered, feeling both utter embarrassment and relief that she had reached him. "Back there. A...a savage."

"All right," he had his hand on his knife, and an arm around her momentarily. "Where the hell did you go?"

"Just over there—not far!"

They waited, and listened, for a few moments, while Abigail's heart pounded and she tried to tell herself to calm down. When it became apparent that they were not going to be immediately set upon, Billy spoke softly, "I'm going to check—"

"No don't leave me," she begged, seeing the conflict skip across his features. "What if they come this way while you are there?"

"You stay right behind me then, and walk quiet."

She obeyed, trying to imitate the lightness of his steps. He reached back for her hand without looking, and she took it. All she could hear was the gentle wind in the treetops, and her own heart thudding in her ears. He glanced back for direction, and she pointed to the spot she had seen the intruder, no longer there.

Billy led her in a circular path towards that location, moving slowly. He crouched, pulled her down among the waist-high ferns, and indicated the scattered footprints left in the soil.

"I could track," he said, soft, "but they're probably long gone."

"But shouldn't we? What if they come back?"

"Well, I won't make much headway if I bring you with me," he said, almost apologetically, "and it's only going to drag us off course, anyway. Besides, if they were alone they'd just be returning to their people."

"But—"

"I think we're fine here for tonight," he said, squeezing her hand. "Unless you really want to move on."

She nodded almost before he'd finished saying so. "Please may we, I couldn't sleep a moment here."

"All right," he said, resigned, and rose, helping her up with him.

Back by the tree, he took a long drink from the waterbag, before beginning to take up the canvas, making eye contact with her over it as she went to do the same. "You were looking for poles."

She nodded, guiltily, picking up her side of the canvas and bringing it to meet his. They stood toe to toe, holding the material taut between them.

"And why would you do that on your own?" he inquired, with forbearance.

"I wanted to have it ready," she said, deciding honesty was better than skirting the issue. "I wanted—to see if I could do it myself."

"Are you worried you're going to have to?"

She stared up at him, uncertain; though that hadn't directly occurred to her as a thought, she supposed her concern over him being sick was something fairly close. "I just thought you weren't well."

"I'm all right," he said, and then with the touch of a smile, added, "since I finally had someone looking after me."

She smiled too, reluctantly, and couldn't resist saying, "So you _did_ like it."

"Every second," he said, and his eyes were so blue it made somewhere in the base of her stomach ache. Dropping her edge of the canvas, she stepped back, and in confusion, twisted hands in her dress and turned away, praying he wouldn't come around to face her, to make her face him.

He didn't. She heard him slowly gathering the rest of the fabric, tying it up, moving back to the tree to pack it away.

She gazed up into the late afternoon sky and wordlessly prayed for...courage, perhaps. Calmness. That they could finish the day's travel and that she could feel safe again whenever it was time to lay her head down. Maybe even that Billy wouldn't look at her that way, not when she already didn't think she could bear it when every time was closer to the last time.

* * *

That evening was a struggle.

Not only had they crossed the river, and though that itself wasn't a hardship, it hadn't occurred to Abigail that moving on didn't give her first dress a chance to dry, so she now had the choice of two damp sets of clothing; Billy had offered to make a fire but her fear of being seen or pursued made her turn down the suggestion; and they had no food but that cursed dry meat of which she was so tired.

She did not give voice to any of her complaints, mostly because moving on from the river bank had been her own wish. And the location they settled on was habitable enough, a pretty moss-thick glade with stark white trees and a wide panoramic viewpoint of the cliffs beyond and the valley though which they'd come up. Actually, with the spongy moss underfoot it was the nicest camp site yet. But the other factors were weighing on her mood.

Billy, without being asked, hung up a remaining length of rope for her extra clothing once the tent was up, and laid them out there. At least they would be dry by morning, given the serene sky stayed so. But her current skirts from thigh down were damp and irritating. She had ripped off the stockings and boots almost at once, and settled, cross-legged and barefoot, on her blanket in the moss. (It was not a position which she had ever adopted before this journey, but now felt by far the most natural given the absence of chairs.) Rather morosely, she gazed through the trees at the richness of the sunset, which couldn't fail to please her just a little with its beauty.

Billy settled nearby, commenting on the softness of the undergrowth, to which she nodded quiet assent. He looked at her thoughtfully. "We don't have too many more days out here. Two, maybe three?"

Unable to speak, because her throat had tightened at those words, she merely nodded.

"Abigail," he said, startling her with her name, as he only seemed to use it in times of extreme emphasis. "Whatever else happens, after? At least you'll be—" he nodded too, almost as if convincing himself, "—you'll be where you're supposed to be."

"And where is that, exactly?" _If you say my father's parlor, I might throw the nearest rock at you,_ she thought.

"Not here." He paused for what seemed like a long time. "Not at sea."

She knew he was going to say next,_ not with me._ She just knew it.

Damn him, and whatever he had done, whatever he had _had_ to do, that made him feel such antipathy to the idea of—

She didn't know what the idea was. Rejoining a civil society? Being in some way united with her?

Pulling her knees to her chest, she pressed her face against them, letting her untamed hair fall over everything like a curtain, shutting the world out.

"Hey." He exhaled. "I didn't mean..." She felt his hand against her back, trying to communicate comfort, but in that moment she could only resent the touch. Concentrating on not letting any tears spill, though the knot in her throat was profound, she wriggled her bare toes in the moss and hugged her knees more tightly.

Part of what she was feeling (she was self-aware enough to realize) was a reaction to today's earlier threat, to her fear, to her gradually building concept of security being challenged once again.

Part of it had nothing to do with that, and was purely to do with her, and him.

When she thought she might be able to speak without a tremor in her voice, she lifted her head, looked at him directly and said, "Perhaps you could tell me what you _did_ mean."

He pressed fingers to his forehead. "I don't know. I guess I thought that it makes a difference to _me_ to know you'll be safe. That's enough for me. That's all I can have."

"Why do you say things like that? As if you can't live a life like others."

He let out a short laugh. "Have you forgotten what I do to make my living?"

"No," she said, angling her chin at him. "Have _you_ forgotten that anyone can start over, be forgiven?"

"Not everyone offers grace so freely as you."

She wasn't sure if that was meant to be a specific compliment to her or a general criticism of society, so she ducked her head now. "I believe that people, individually, are more merciful than you think."

Billy made a sound that, while not scornful, was not agreement.

She saw, or sensed, a feeling of defeat, of withdrawal, in the lines of his posture. She wasn't sure at all what she was walking into now, but she said, hesitantly, "And I also believe—if you haven't given that mercy to yourself first—then you will have much more difficulty getting it from others."

He looked at her, looked away, his head dropping. She watched the muscles in his jaw shift, the tendons in his neck taut. She put out a hand, drawn by his struggle.

"I don't know how to get forgiveness for those things."

"I don't know either," she admitted. "Do you want to tell me?"

He shook his head.

"Why not?"

A long silence, and then he said, "You'll see me differently."

"I couldn't. Not now."

"I'm a killer, Abigail," he said, plainly. "That's—what I am."

The word hurt, it was a vicious word after all, no matter how softly he said it, and she did flinch as it settled over them, blanketed them with its unpleasantness in this otherwise perfect glade of pure white trees and soft moss.

She tried to imagine, could scarcely begin. Maybe if she'd seen him do it (though she balked at envisioning any such scene), it would be easier to believe. How could those hands end a man's life for no other reason than the man stood between him and a prize he wanted to collect. There were surely other and varied reasons—he might have alluded to those, she thought, when he'd talked about how this life had begun for him, but since then...

"Look at me," he said, because she wasn't. But she obeyed, a little afraid of her own expression.

"That's what I thought," he said, grim, seeing it at once.

"No." She tried to catch his hand as he stood up. "No, Billy, stop. Of course it _bothers_ me, but I still just—I see _you_." Scrambling to her feet, too, she clasped his forearm, as he half-turned away.

He remained unmoving, clearly irresolute, though he could have at any moment shaken her off with no effort. Instead he looked back at her, a multitude of emotions flitting across his face that she could scarcely name, but _felt_ in her own heart.

"I'm here," she whispered. "I'm not running from you."

In that moment she sensed her power, for whatever resolve he had to keep himself from her had weakened. If not crumbled completely. She felt it in his muscles, saw it in his eyes. Almost fear, almost acceptance.

And perhaps it was wrong but she took advantage of that power, raised herself on her toes, pulled his head down to hers and their lips met. And he was in no way reluctant, turning towards her fully, gathering her up in his arms and kissing her back with just about as much fervor.

Breathless, she broke free for a moment to fill her lungs with air. Then his mouth was against her ear, along her neck, his rough jaw scratching her skin in a deliciously sensory manner. His lips in the hollow of her throat. _ Dear Lord_. She didn't know how to handle all the sensations at once, aware of his hands, too, roaming at her waist, along her sides, in her hair...Fairly certain that they should stop, but also certain she didn't want to. His kisses were so tender, as if her body was something he wanted, needed, to learn.

"Billy," she whispered, herself needing to be somehow closer.

"Yeah," he said, sounding muffled like one of them was under water.

"Kiss me."

"I am," he breathed, returning to her mouth. The heat in their bodies felt to her like they would surely burst into flame if they continued touching; her blood was singing in her ears. Her neck was starting to hurt from trying to reach him, and so, instinct overruling any last shred of decency, she put her arms around his neck and jumped against him, causing him at first to stagger momentarily before he caught her and swung her up, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, choosing to ignore where his hands were now holding her. The move had surprised them both, and for a few moments they just stared at each other, eye level, and he murmured an almost reverential curse, and to punish him she leaned in and nipped at his bottom lip, and then they were starting all over again. Which lasted for a few more dizzying, ardent moments until he let her go and pushed at her knees to make her untangle herself from around him, setting her disappointingly down. She wavered. He steadied her, hands on hips, then took them off like he was burned and stepped several paces away, breathing harshly.

She felt her lips, warm and pleasantly full, form a pout without really willing it.

"Christ, Abigail, we need to not do that," he said, running all the words together.

She felt bereft, without the contact. She crossed her arms across her chest, hugging in the heat, trying to recreate that feeling. "Do we?" she murmured, a bit aimlessly.

"Not even a little," he said, staring at her as if she were some sort of thoroughly unsettling sovereign who had just turned his world on its end.

"You didn't like it?"

"I didn't—" He took two strides back toward her. "Fuck!"

"_Billy_."

"Sorry!" He ran hands across his head. "Sorry," he added, somewhat more calmly, and backed away again, then began to pace. She watched him as he circled. "Want a fire? I can make a fire—"

"It's not cold," she said, bemused.

"Right. Give me something to do." He stopped pacing, poised, as though on her command he might just climb into the trees or set off on a run into the fading sunset.

"We could talk about this," she proposed.

"_Talk_. I could lay you down on this moss right now and—"

"Billy," she pleaded again.

He looked briefly contrite, but not actually apologetic. After a moment of silence he said, "Abigail. I mean it. Tell me what to do."

She sighed with disbelieving impatience that he thought any of this was any easier on her, after all, she had been quite as involved, quite as caught up in those breathless, passionate moments as he had! But perhaps it was different with men; she did not know. Still she raised her shoulders helplessly and put her hands up, looking around, as if their surroundings would somehow in that instant offer up some gainful assignment. "Make the fire then!"

"Good," he said, as if that were a completely novel idea and not one that he had suggested moments before.

_Well, that's fine for you,_ she thought, watching him move. _What am I meant to do? _Disinclined to the task, she put her damp boots back on and began to look, without enthusiasm, for smaller fuel that might be in the vicinity. She couldn't stop thinking about what they'd done, mostly along the direction of wanting to revisit it, perhaps in a slower, more leisurely and time-consuming manner. He'd been pretty vehement about not letting it happen again, but maybe she could convince him otherwise.

_Abigail, you are no lady to entertain such imaginings_, her more proper self cautioned, but now that she knew what such things were like—with him specifically—it was hard not to think about them.

She returned to his chosen spot—a carved out circle in cleared dirt, as there were no stones about—and dumped her collected armful of tinder. They studiously avoided meeting each other's eyes, and in fact, she noticed, went in the other direction around the spot so as not to pass her at one point, which struck her as both simultaneously silly and wise.

Once he had the fire lit, and smoke spiraling upwards into the gradually inky sky, she wondered if they were both in control of themselves enough to talk. She doubted she would get any sleep if they didn't talk at least a little. How else were they to navigate the shock of coming from that intimacy back to their typical interactions?

But the way his lips had felt on her skin. She shivered, despite the flames.

Having something to do did seem to have helped; he looked calmer, less intense, when she shot a glance at him from the other side of the fire. Still they rested in the silence for a while.

Eventually she inquired, "Isn't there anything you want to say to me?"

"Sorry," he muttered.

Abigail sighed in mild exasperation. "No, that is not what I mean...You know you don't have to take responsibility for absolutely everything that happens, don't you?"

"How's that?"

"I kissed _you_."

"Still."

"So you must not blame yourself for something that _I_ started."

"I shouldn't've—"

"Honestly," Abigail interrupted with a helpless laugh, "I've seen churchmen I suspect are less principled than you."

He shuffled boots against the dirt, looking down.

"Why do you do that? Hold yourself to such a standard. It's strangely incompatible with—with your life at sea."

"I don't like things to get out of hand," he said, in little more than a mumble.

"I don't think anyone likes that," she considered.

"Then I like it less than most people." He stood up and poked at the fire restlessly.

"Come sit by me."

He looked at her warily through the flames.

"Just come and sit, won't you?"

The way he moved around the fire and came close again reminded her of a nervous animal, but at least he complied with the directive. A watchful few feet away.

"Tell me if I'm wrong," Abigail said, "but I suspect all of this is much more new to me than it is to you." By _all of this_ she really did mean everything, almost everything that had occurred over the past number of days. But she was also hoping that he would realize she meant specifically this most recent intimacy. Because she felt as if she might actually be dealing with the reality of it better than he was. And that was strange to think.

"It shouldn't've happened," he said, stubbornly.

"But it did. And you have enough to blame yourself over, I don't want this to be yet another." She reached out for his hand, hoping he wouldn't reject it, hoping he understood it was a gesture of affection in this moment, not attraction. After a pause he gave it, his familiarly rough palm connecting with hers.

"So what do we do now?" he said eventually.

"We keep going," she said simply. "And don't behave differently to each other."

He looked at her with doubt.

"Don't avoid me," she clarified.

He breathed out. "Here's the problem. I might not be as strong as you think I am."

That he could say that at all was incredibly endearing, and she wanted to embrace him for it, but then of course they might be back where they'd started. She settled for giving him a smile, and said, "I might not be, either. I suppose we will have to help each other."

He nodded, silent, not especially convincing assent.

But they were both calmer now, she felt it settling upon them as the darkness deepened. And when she said goodnight, and stood up, he stood up too and they exchanged a chaste, brief embrace, and she lay down in her blanket with still many questions, but fewer doubts.

The remaining days of travel were bittersweet for her. She felt as if she and Billy had come to a new understanding, had formed a proper partnership (however illegitimate) and yet with the spectre of her father and some difficult conversations looming in the foreground, also the realization that their journey was coming to an end. They didn't talk a great deal more, but not out of any awkwardness or misunderstanding, only that their interactions seemed to be made up more of shared glances, unspoken communication, the occasional touch while working cooperatively. On the evening when they set up the tent for the last time, with a soft drizzle of rain and the lights of Charlestown in the distance, Billy's wry grin alone told her that her side of the tent would hold up just as well as his, her knots perfected, and she was both proud and pensive.

And in the morning, when they folded up the canvas, they stood, toe to toe, and without words he kissed her for the second time, an entirely different experience, wistful and regretful and it made her heart feel as if it might crumble. And they just gazed at each other, and words wouldn't have made any of it mean more.

She swallowed tears, though the continued drizzle might have helped conceal them. He shouldered the pack with a grim face.

"Know your way around the city?" he asked.

"A...a little. I think we will come through the south gates, if we head that way. And my father's house—" she could not make herself say home—"is in that area of higher ground." She pointed.

"All right," he said, and took her hand, almost brusquely. "Let's go."

With a building sense of foreboding settling in her stomach, Abigail followed him away from their campsite and down the hillside, toward the narrow line that was the road leading to the city gates.

How she wished that at the least it was not raining on this morning, when they would appear even more like a pair of bedraggled rats sneaking back into civilization, quite the opposite of the appearance she was hoping to present. But the weather could not be helped, and she told herself that it was time for her to be strong, now. These were her grounds they were coming back into. Billy's words of days ago re-entered her mind, when she'd first asked him why he didn't want to bring her here..._Charlestown is crawling with pirate hunters—_and if there was anything at all she could do to keep whatever concerns he might still harbor at bay, she would do it.

Anything.


	9. Charlestown

Charlestown. _Fucking Charlestown._

They were finally here.

Soldiers and slaves alike in the muddy streets, bonneted women clutching their satchels, men of every background and country calling in different languages, the neigh of horses, barking of semi-wild dogs, and the screech of carts' wheels. Much of it like Nassau itself, or any young city in fact, except here there was a flavor, a taste in the air that made Billy feel distinctly ill-at-ease.

The forced and far too often random implementation of law.

It didn't sit well with him, it never had. Not even when he'd been on the right side of it, which was a long time ago now. Beyond the mental curtain.

What was ignored one moment was enforced the next. That violated his internal code. If something wasn't acceptable, it was never acceptable; how else could you run a ship? Just a few moments beyond the gates and this town reeked of graft, of false fronts, of displays of power arbitrarily applied.

Even being let in at the south wall, he'd gotten the feeling that another pair of soldiers might have made trouble, where the ones they'd dealt with hadn't seemed particularly interested in their business, or what they might be up to once in the city.

He hadn't wanted to show any force right at the start (that was a good way to get noticed at once) and he was glad he hadn't needed to, but it made him uncomfortable just the same.

He spotted a boy on the road, crouched in the space between a couple of barrels outside a farrier's, trying to sell something, probably stolen—nothing unusual there except that tomorrow any of the soldiers might shove their rifle butt in the lad's face and tell him he was going be strung up on the nearest gibbet if he didn't disappear, _and hand over the goods while you're at it_.

It made his stomach turn, actually. It wasn't that there wasn't violence in Nassau, oh, they had plenty of that. But he'd be damned if any of these people—slave, servant, mistress alike—could tell him with any certainty that they knew where they stood from one day to the next with the law and its red-coated enforcers.

Abigail squeezed his hand more tightly, bringing him back to the moment. He slowed his pace, realizing he was striding, and glanced back at her. She looked about as nervous as he felt, indicating the next street they were to go down.

_She's counting on you, Bones. Don't disappoint her, not now._ He had semi-successfully pushed the idea of leaving her permanently to the back of his mind for now, just wanting to get through this initial interview, just wanting to see her safe, and if he couldn't do that much...then what had any of this been for?

Despite what she might think about where she belonged, it was here.

Much as he already disliked this place and was tempted to sweep her right back to the forest, where the dangers weren't man-made.

Well. Lord Ashe had quite a place for himself, not far off from what he'd pictured. Imposing columns. Vast windows. Manicured palms and shrubbery. Right down to the wide steps and massive front door. Dropping Abigail's hand—who knew who might already be looking out those windows—he looked at her, saw defensive embarrassment in her expression.

"You live well," he remarked, but it didn't come out as lightly as it should have. She bit her lip, and he wanted to catch that lip between his own and kiss it and tell her he was sorry and he didn't mean to be an ass.

But that would hardly be the thing to do on her father's property, so he took a breath and said, "Let's go."

He didn't move, though, until she moved past him and started the walk up the steps. Then he followed her. Because he wasn't going to make her do it alone.

"I can't simply go in," Abigail murmured, giving the door an agonized stare, and then turning to him. "I can't."

He pointed at the ornate lion's head door knocker, and she nodded.

It was promptly answered by a white-capped maid whose face when she opened the door, read shock. "Miss...Abigail?"

Billy reached out instinctively because the lass looked like she was going to faint, but she let out a tiny shriek when he moved, so he put his hands up, and back. A grand start.

"It's all right, Mary, I am well," Abigail assured. "Please let us inside."

Mary did, though Billy eyed her thinking she still seemed more than likely to pass out and hit her head on that shiny scrubbed floor. He closed the door after them, and they stood there, dripping.

"Mary, please, where is my father?"

"Not at home, miss." Mary's eyes were round in a face as white as her cap now.

Billy saw in the background a pair of men—servants, slaves?—on alert. He wondered how they were prepared to defend this place without the governor around. Locked doors could only do so much. Perhaps there were soldiers elsewhere.

"Not at home," Abigail repeated, faintly, and then cleared her throat. "When is he expected?"

"Tomorrow I believe? We had thought you quite lost to us, miss..."

"This is my guest," Abigail interrupted. "Mr. Manderly. Please bring him to a room, make sure a fire is set, and try to find him something dry if you can. And then we must have something to eat, within the hour. Make haste, Mary."

Mary bobbed and scurried, and one of the men came forward, greeting Abigail and dipping his head, giving Billy an inspection that was carefully inoffensive before deferentially urging him to follow. He looked back at Abigail, hating this already—the high ceiling, the polished lights, the separation from her. She nodded, infinitesimally. _Go._

His room was ridiculous. Embroidered tapestries, velvet chairs, a canopied bed—the fireplace, at least, was more functional than decorative. The man who showed him in busied himself with lighting tapers, setting the fire (though Billy was tempted to dismiss him and say he'd handle it—did gentlemen not know how to light fires?) The fellow expressed dubious concern that they might not have any suitable clothes to fit Sir, but had water sent up anyway. Billy just pulled his second set of clothing, which was dry at least, out of the pack and put that on once he was alone and had washed up. There was a copper mirror and bowl for shaving, and he availed himself of that, too, using his own knife to remove the days of growth from his jaw. He looked better, he thought, once that was done. Maybe not a gentleman yet, but at least not a wild woodsman or unemployed sailor.

That done, he was hungry, and wanted to see Abigail again, so he left his room, only to be met by the fellow—Wilkes, he said his name was when asked—waiting to escort him to the dining room. Christ, could one do nothing alone? Granted, the house was big enough he might have gotten lost for a while. He was relieved to see Abigail already there, standing near the long table. She smiled upon sight of him.

"Thank you, Wilkes. That is all for now."

Wilkes backed away, closing the double doors behind him (probably a breach of propriety, but Billy didn't care if Abigail didn't, and if her father wasn't home then who the fuck cared at all?)

He came to her, struck by how beautiful she looked: clean, hair restored to damp lustrous order around her shoulders, wearing a dress that glittered in the candlelight. And it hit him, too, like a fist to the stomach, that this was her proper setting. For the first time, he was seeing her where she was meant to be, amidst all this luxury.

Her face was a bit anxious, though, scanning his, and he smiled because he knew she needed to see the reassurance that he was all right too, but it felt forced.

"Was everything—?"

"Everything's great." He glanced over the spread of food. "Are we going to sit like respectable folk, or are we just going to eat?"

"We're absolutely just going to eat," Abigail said, with a relieved laugh, and picked up some tiny confection and popped it in her mouth. She took another and held it out for him, and he obliged. "Mm. No idea what that is..."

"But it's good, isn't it?" Soon they were helping themselves like children, still standing, not even bothering with the silver cutlery laid out so precisely. Fruit, meat, delicacies from the oven; they simply ate.

"We're going to be sick," Abigail said, licking her fingers, and then gazing down at them in some horror. "I cannot believe I did that. I've forgotten all my manners."

He grinned at her now, feeling more at ease. "No one's watching."

"But they will be," she said, widening her eyes. "I confess I...I feel relief that we had this time before my father sees us."

He was of mixed feelings about that, on the one hand agreeing, on the other just wanting to have it over with.

And wouldn't it be easier, even now, if he merely walked out that front door? Avoided any meeting altogether? Left her to field questions and make up whatever story she wished on her own, without his presence to provoke further inquiries?

He picked up a glass of water from the table, the stem so slender it felt he could break it between thumb and forefinger, and drank it down to ease the sudden discomfort in his throat.

"What do you think?" she asked timorously.

He shook his head, wanted to shrug to indicate he didn't know, but she might take that to mean he didn't care, which wasn't the truth.

"Billy? Talk to me?"

He sighed, and said, "I think you look...beautiful," because that was both true and seemed like a safe noncommittal statement.

"You look very handsome too," she said, softening visibly, reaching up to touch his face.

He flinched a little at the unaccustomed feel of her fingers on newly exposed skin, but said lightly, "Yeah? Do I look like a gentleman yet?"

"Gentlemen don't wear their knives to table," Abigail said with a tender smile.

He reached down instinctively, not having recalled belting it back on after changing, but then the action was such habit.

"Did you think you were going to need it?"

He gestured up and down at her. "You might have wanted it for that dress..."

She tilted her head. "I believe my dress is quite appropriate as long as we aren't crossing any rivers."

He considered telling her what he'd like to do with the dress, but decided not to let things get out of hand.

There was a discreet tap on the doors, long enough to allow Billy to create a respectable space between himself and Abigail, before they were opened to reveal Wilkes again. "Pardon, miss. Is there anything else you would like me to bring?" His gaze, again, took in Billy with just enough scrutiny to avoid causing insult.

"Thank you, Wilkes, I believe we have everything we need. Perhaps some of Lord Ashe's whisky, for my guest?"

The man nodded and withdrew. Billy waited a few beats and then said, "I don't want to drink your father's whisky."

Abigail sighed. "I'm sorry, that just came to my mind. Of course you don't have to. I thought it might help."

"Help what?"

She made a vague gesture. "Help you feel more...at home?"

"One thing I'm never going to feel in a house like this, sweet potatoes, is at _home_."

"I'm sorry," she said quickly, again.

"No, stop apologizing. I'm not angry." He thought his usage of the nickname would've established that, but perhaps not.

"I've just never done this before, either," she pointed out, quietly.

"This?" he said, idly running a hand along the bone-smooth back of one of the carved chairs.

"Entertain a guest. I don't know what the proper...rituals...are."

"Right. I remember you saying you weren't part of that. Still, I would've thought—" he shrugged.

"What?"

He picked up one of the china teacups, to have something to look at. The object was tiny; he could have hidden it completely in his hand. Staring at the painted flowers along the edge, he said, "Just that your father would have men lined up for you by now." He pictured a rather indiscriminate mass of red-coated officers, and felt his lip curl.

"I would not say he has any lined up," Abigail said hesitantly, taking a step forwards. "I—I have _met_ a few, although they were not _necessarily_ presented in that capacity, and of course, never in—private."

"You don't need to explain to me."

"I know, I...it seemed that you wanted more details."

"I definitely don't want details."

"Billy..." She put out a hand, and he wasn't completely sure what happened in that next instant, either the cup slipped out of his palm and smashed, or he crushed it in his fingers and dropped it upon the shock of the china piercing flesh. The pieces were scattered across the floor, at any rate. They both stood motionless for a moment, looking at the spill, and then he crouched and began to collect them. Abigail also dropped to her knees.

"Sorry," he said, retrieving the curved handle from underneath the chair.

"It doesn't matter, Billy, stop, you're bleeding." She grabbed his hand, which he'd clenched into a fist without conscious thought, and tugged his fingers open. They both looked at the blood. She made a sound and pried a shard from his palm.

"It's nothing."

Wilkes re-entered without knocking. They heard him setting something down, then coming over. "Sir, miss, please. Step aside. I will take care of this."

Billy submitted to Abigail bringing him to the other chair and pushing him gently into it. She took a napkin from the table and before he could object, put it under his hand. The cuts weren't deep, but bled just the same. Abigail cradled his hand in hers. He observed, "You're going to get blood on yourself."

"As though I cared," she scolded softly, dabbing his skin. "Wilkes, please bring us some bandages. I think there's still a piece there," she plucked at another small shard.

"Of course, miss."

"There is better light in the sitting room," Abigail decided. "Come."

He followed her, resigned, down the halls to another room, where the floor-to-ceiling windows did indeed provide greater light, and where she seated him near the windows in a cushioned chair. "Does it hurt?" She knelt in front of him, looking up anxiously.

"Not much." He would have taken a drink of that whisky, though, had they brought it with them (though he wasn't going to ask for it). Wilkes reappeared with some material which he gave to Abigail and departed saying to ring the bell if he was needed, otherwise he would be clearing away the dining room.

Though he showed her wordlessly that the bleeding had already stopped, she insisted on binding it anyway with a layer of bandage, tying the two ends together neatly.

He looked out at the rain glazing the windows.

Abigail rose, brushed what was probably imaginary dirt from her dress since the carpet looked immaculate, and pulled the companion chair over closer to his.

By the light, it was probably barely midday and yet the day already felt interminable. He tried to relax in the chair, convince himself that doing nothing at all for the time being was completely legitimate considering the past couple of weeks. But it felt vaguely fraudulent. He wasn't sick, or wounded, even counting the hand. Just sitting here in the governor's parlor—a man, who if he harbored the least suspicions regarding Billy's past activities, could and likely would have him strung up at the pier with a sign to scare passersby—seemed like a mockery.

"Are you all right?" Abigail leaned forward in her chair. She could read his restlessness, probably.

"Fine." He knew it didn't sound convincing. "So. Any one in particular?"

"Pardon?"

"The men."

"Do you—are you _trying_ to see me married off before you leave?" she demanded, her voice pitching higher.

"No," he said, but wondering what perverse mood was making him persist in this vein. If she started crying, he was going to feel like an ass again. Maybe it was a form of punishment. "Just...pick a good one, I guess."

That came out bitter, and he knew it, and why the fuck was he doing this to himself. Or her. He didn't _want_ to hurt her. Any more than he was already going to.

Abigail rose, smoothing hands down the front of her skirts before folding them in front of her. "Please join me at dinner," she said, with painful formality. "I don't know your taste in books, but if you care to read, the library is the next door to the left. There is a fire lit, and a bell there too, if you should need anything."

He'd rather she'd just gone for his knife and see what she could stab before he stopped her than listen to that recitation, but it was his own fault. While he stared at her, searching for words, she delivered a polite but soulless curtsy, and swished away across the soft carpet to exit the room, closing the doors without sound.

Cursing at the polished-wood window, Billy clenched hands into fists before he remembered the bandage, which sent a spasm of pain through that hand, which he actually welcomed because he deserved it. Damn the books and the fire in the damn library, he was going back to his room for the afternoon, and if there was a bell _there_ he might just throw it out the window.

* * *

He realized, considerably later, that upon returning to his room he'd actually fallen asleep sprawled across the bed. Though he'd become completely acclimatized to the single night-time stretch over the past days, the previous night he'd been watchful, ill-at-ease so close to the city, and the lack of sleep had caught up with him.

Now, he rose and went to the washstand to splash water over his face and neck. The fire had settled to embers and the light from the windows nonexistent, signaling that night had arrived. Perhaps he'd skipped the dinner hour entirely. Though maybe that wasn't such a terrible thing. Abigail might even have been relieved that he had not troubled himself to make an appearance. He would have thought she would at least send someone to check on him, however. The idea that she might not have, bothered him somewhat.

He was pulling on his boots in preparation for investigating the kitchen, a place where if anyone was the least inclined to feed him, he'd be more comfortable anyway. Then came a cautious couple of taps at the door.

Out of habit, he went to open it an inch rather than calling out. He'd realized he'd expected to see Abigail, but it was Wilkes.

"Begging your pardon, sir. I came by earlier. Governor Ashe has returned and is very desirous of making your acquaintance, that is if it suits you to meet him tonight."

Billy leaned his head on the door for a moment. "I thought he wasn't due back until tomorrow." This was possibly a cheeky thing to remark, but Wilkes did not look offended.

"Indeed he was, sir, but we sent word of Miss Ashe's safe return—" he bobbed his head, presumably in acknowledgement of Billy's part in this—"and he made all haste to come home this evening."

"All right, well, you can let him know I'll be down..." He considered, not especially wanting to pick a specific amount of time, or at least appear in any hurry. "Soon."

"Very good, sir. He waits in the library." Wilkes bowed and backed away. Billy closed the door.

_Christ, tonight already. How much of a gentleman _don't_ I look?_ He went over to the mirror and took a second glance at himself. The knife had to come off—he unbuckled the belt and laid it aside—and so did the leather ties and cords round his neck of varying value and sentiment, and wrist guards. Couldn't do anything about the scars. At least there were no recent wounds as evidence of skirmishes. He was a bit hollow-eyed from eating less over the past week.

All considered he'd probably looked worse.

He rotated arms, shook his shoulders, told himself just to go get this business over with. Thought about sticking his knife in his boot at the last minute. _All right, Bones, it's the governor, you're not going to fucking stab him no matter what he says, so just go have this done, aye? _He exhaled and walked out the door.

The stairs down from the upper hallway seemed endless. All he could hear was the echo of his boots. A servant or two scuffled by and ducked out of sight. Wilkes appeared in front of the library doors, gloved hands behind back. He dipped his head again and opened the doors, letting Billy through.

Peter Ashe was standing looking out the window. He turned at once, taking Billy in one long, sweeping sharp-eyed glance. Billy tried for a neutral expression.

"Mr. Manderly." He came towards him, extending his hand. Billy instinctively went to do the same before remembering his bandaged palm, at which they both glanced. "You are injured," Abigail's father observed.

"It's really nothing. I—dropped a cup. Yours," he added inanely.

Ashe let out a surprised laugh and lowered his outstretched hand. "Unfortunate. I can have my surgeon look at the wound, if necessary?"

"Uh, no, it's—" He looked around the room, wondering if Abigail was hiding somewhere and he just hadn't seen her yet. Perceptively, Ashe caught that.

"My daughter has retired," he said, with smoothness. "We were sorry you couldn't join us at dinner, but we assumed you needed the time to recuperate. Allow me, first and foremost, to express my deep gratitude for returning my daughter safely to me." He reached out and took both Billy's hands, careful just to touch the outside of both of them, and stared up at him.

Though Ashe was not especially short, most men had to look up at him at least a little, although this close, all that Billy could think was _Jesus, this is awkward_. In those few moments he noticed how searching the other man's eyes were, so the contact and proximity served as both appropriate expression of appreciation and an opportunity to make an evaluation.

Ashe's eyes narrowed minutely, as the silence stretched, and he covered that over with a brief smile.

Billy realized it was time for him to say something. "You're welcome," he said, though the words stuck in his throat.

"Abigail told me much of the efforts you made to see her home. She insisted that you be recompensed for your troubles, and she also told me," again the slight smile, "that you would more than likely refuse."

He forced out his own even smile. "I considered it my—honor, to bring Miss Ashe home where she belonged. She spoke to me of money as well, but as you say—I don't seek any...compensation."

"Indeed." Ashe stepped back, finally giving him some space. (Billy breathed.) "If you don't mind me asking such a question, are you a man of independent means, then?"

The question did not strike him as a completely innocent one so he just angled his head a fraction and said, as pleasantly as he could, "Money isn't currently a concern for me." Which of course wasn't true, he would have to be back in Nassau to arrange for any whatever remained of his hidden stash to be liquidated.

Ashe nodded as if this made sense, absorbing the deflection. "It is not often one finds a man for whom money is not a concern," he remarked. "You seem a unique individual. Please. Will you have a drink with me?" He gestured to an open cupboard filled with a number of bottles.

Billy refrained just in time from shrugging assent the way he and a friend might have back at the tavern. "I will," he said, hoping that worked in lieu of whatever the properly gentlemanly response would have been.

"What is your preference?"

If that was some sort of test, fuck it. "I'll drink whatever you drink," he said.

There was that fucking smile again. Billy hated him already.

Ashe inclined his head, moved briskly to the sideboard, and poured them both a measure of something. He brought it over to Billy—who was tempted just to throw the damn thing back and start on another right away—and they both partook. Some kind of brandy, possibly. He wasn't certain.

"Do you care for it?" Ashe inquired.

"Tastes expensive," Billy said, both because it did and because he didn't feel like inventing some other less gauche type of observation.

"Aptly noted. Please." Ashe gestured to the wing-back chairs bordering the fireplace. They both took seats. Billy sipped his drink and waited for the next shot.

"I was hoping that you could shed some more light on the details of my daughter's recovery," Ashe said, smoothly.

He considered. It was entirely possible—nay, more than likely—that depending on how much Abigail had revealed to her father, he might say something quite contradictory. Which was obviously to be avoided. "What did she tell you?"

Ashe's expression remained warm, engaged, but Billy didn't miss the tightening of his jaw. "Abigail experienced considerable...hardship after her capture, as I'm sure you were aware. As such, she indicated that her memories of the events might be...faulty. Disjointed. Indeed with entire gaps."

"Right. She _indicated_ that to me as well." Was he purposely parroting the other man's speech patterns? Maybe a little. There was a fine line between imitation and mockery.

"Thus, at this juncture, I am mainly concerned with how you came to enter the picture. I would like to corroborate her version of events with yours."

"Do you have reason to disbelieve anything she told you?"

Ashe sighed and rubbed his forehead delicately. "She is a woman," he said, contemplating his glass, "and a young one at that."

Billy knew he shouldn't push any further, but couldn't help himself. "So you would have more faith in a complete stranger's narrative than your own daughter's?"

"You are indeed a complete stranger," Ashe said, nodding. "No connections to anyone in Charlestown? Savannah?"

"No, sir." It grated to add the honorific, but a 'no' all on its own would have been ruder than he was ready to be at this juncture.

"Abigail's education has been extensive," Ashe said, almost abruptly, "but her experiences of the world, naturally, very limited. I have taken pains to keep it that way. Her capture—her disappearance—was a terrible trial for me. I cannot hope to re-integrate her into her previous life without some knowledge of what she has undergone. Indeed it may not be possible."

Billy emptied his glass. "I'd say you have to talk to your daughter about her experiences."

"I did, earlier, and I will continue to." Ashe's voice hardened just a touch. "It is those experiences she shared with you, in recent days, to which I am referring. Since it appears you were her sole escort—can you offer me some reassurance on that point?"

_ What the fuck does he actually want me to say to that?_

"I told her," he said eventually, "if she trusted me, I'd keep her safe."

"A brave promise in an inherently unsafe world," Ashe said, raising eyebrows. "Where, if you don't mind me asking, does a young man such as yourself, with—forgive me, but by your own account, no connections to speak of—come by such confidence?"

Billy had no answer for such a question. None that didn't involve speaking about being forced to the sea against his will, then finding a home there once he'd exacted his revenge against the man who had brought him to it in the first place. And subsequently having no choice but to continue to live in rebellion against all civilized society.

That wasn't a story Ashe had earned the right to hear about, even if his daughter had.

He said nothing, and the silence stretched long between them. In the meantime the other man rose, refilled his glass, and brought the bottle over to him to refill his, watching him the whole time.

"Then," Ashe said, evidently accepting that he wasn't going to get an answer, "were you able to keep that promise?"

"Again, you could ask her, but yes," Billy said flatly. "I did."

Ashe let the answer sit for a moment. "That is...good. It is of prime importance to me that Abigail did not suffer any—exploitation of any kind. That she was not taken advantage of in any way."

"Right, you're her father."

"Yes. And while, as I mentioned, I am happy to recompense any who assured her protection, I am equally able to bring the most severe punishment to bear upon any who interfered with that state of innocence. I trust you understand me."

"Very well. Sir."

"Then let us retire this conversation for tonight. It grows quite late. I assume you mean to be on your way by the morrow?"

_I could leave tonight if you want me out._ He very nearly said this. He simply nodded.

"Let us speak again in the morning. And please reconsider my offer of reward, so that we can settle accounts clearly." Ashe rose, and Billy stood too, no less eager to conclude this irksome interview. Ashe glanced at his hand, smiled in lieu of shaking it, and he felt himself dismissed.

He left the library and took the stairs up three at a time, telling himself that nothing made so much sense as simply leaving, tonight, under cover of darkness. No conversation in the morning, no money, no saying goodbye. None of it. Was it cowardly to consider? Maybe. He wasn't above doing something cowardly now and again—not when there was so much at stake to face. Did he want his last memory of Abigail's face to be what it had been, earlier in the sitting room?

Well, no, he didn't. But was it fair to take their leave of each other in her father's presence? When the most he could reasonably do would be to take her hand and kiss the air above it, as if they hadn't shared far greater intimacies, as if they hadn't gone through everything they had?

He retired to his room, undecided, torn. Paced for a while. Investigated the possibility of leaving through the window. It didn't seem it could be done without breaking it. He'd just have to go down in the dark and walk out the front door. Wilkes wouldn't care to stop him, though he could certainly try.

The fire was almost out in the fireplace, and there were only a few candles still burning for light. He stood, undecided, in the middle of the room, eyeing his pack with his things laid out, when there were hushed taps at the door, so light he thought he'd imagined them before he went to open it.

Abigail.

He let her in, swallowing a curse, glancing behind her. If anyone was watching from the hallway's shadows, he didn't see.

She was wearing a stark white nightgown that covered her from neck to toe. Actually she was ghostly with her dark hair spilled around her shoulders, her pale strained face. Her eyes, he could see even in this dim light, were puffy from crying.

"What the hell, Abigail. You can't be in my _room_."

"You didn't come down for dinner. I wanted to talk to you then, but if this is the only way—"

"This is a damned stupid way, what if someone—"

"The servants are all to bed, except Wilkes who went to the basement, and my father never leaves his room once he goes to it."

"Don't you think he might be on the lookout tonight since there's a man he hates in his house?"

"He doesn't hate you, he doesn't know you."

"Ah, _you_ didn't hear the way he was talking to me."

"Actually, I did," she said, looking equal parts proud and guilty. "I..I listened outside the door."

Billy tried to remember all he and her father had said to each other. What they'd said of her. Eventually he demanded, "Doesn't it bother you that he views you like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you're less worthy of trust than someone he just met."

"He has always seen me that way," Abigail said quietly. "I believe he always will." She moved to stand beside the dying fire, and he, out of habit, retrieved a log from the small piled stack and added it. For a short while they both stood, watching the flames as they had so often in the last days.

"You could take me away from him," she said.

He hadn't expected to hear her say those words out loud. He felt they'd both thought it at one point or another, but to hear her say it, was a shock just the same.

And worse, he had to tell her now, because now she'd voiced it, it must be answered.

"No."

She blinked at him.

"That'll just prove him right. What he thinks about—my kind, that we just steal whatever we take a liking to."

She didn't understand. He could see it on her face. She thought he just didn't _want_ to get her out of here.

"_You_ have to do it," he said forcefully. "You have to stand up to him."

"How could I? He wouldn't listen. He has never listened." Her voice trembled. Dammit, he would not weaken. If he was leaving tonight, he was leaving alone. He was_ not_ going to steal her out from under the governor's nose and thereby validate every negative thing the man might well already suspect about him.

She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him, looking betrayed. He gazed back at her evenly, refusing to give ground. He knew he was right about this.

"What do you imagine I should say to him?"

"_I'm_ the one that doesn't know what to say to him. I'm not in any position to argue anything. _You're_ his daughter."

"So...so that is it? You're just going to leave tomorrow?"

"That was the plan," he said, more loudly than he meant to. "What's changed?"

"Nothing. I suppose nothing has changed." Her voice rang with hurt.

"Abigail. Maybe it wasn't clear to you listening through the door. But your father? If I took you away from him now? He would never stop chasing us. Me. He would never stop chasing _me._"

"I suppose I didn't think that would scare you."

"I'm not—" He sighed in pure frustration, whirled away, turned back to face her. "I'm not _scared_, all right? Is that how you want to live? What if we—" He cut himself off.

"What?" she pleaded.

All right then, he would just say it. "If we had a child—! A family. Could you live like that? Because I fucking couldn't!"

She swallowed, the line of the fabric moving against her throat. Her eyes were glistening. She bowed her head.

He hadn't meant to shout at her. Didn't want to hurt her. But by Christ she needed to understand.

"Billy," she whispered, knotting her hands together, looking up at long last.

"Yeah," he said, trying to bring his breathing back down to something resembling normal.

"Please take the money, tomorrow."

He squinted at her, temporarily distracted. The money, who cared about the money?

"When he offers it again. Please. I beg you to accept it."

"_Why_?"

"You have nothing," she whispered.

As earlier, he wished, if she was trying to hurt him now, trying to get back at him for denying her, she would just pick up his knife and wield it against him. "Nothing," he repeated.

"It's true," Abigail defended, her voice pitching higher. "I know what you paid, to keep me that first night—to keep me safe in the..." she hesitated, "—and then for the ship to take us—"

"Believe me," he cut her off, "I'm well aware the extent to which I've _invested_ in this venture."

"So let him make good! It's nothing to him."

"That's all you think I'm worth? A sack of gold. I can't possibly have anything else, can't _make_ anything else out of the life I've led."

"That's not what I—"

"No, I heard what you said." He crossed over to where he'd removed his cords and wrist guards, put everything back on with more force than warranted. He didn't look at her, though he heard a couple of restrained sobs.

"You're not—you wouldn't leave tonight," she said, through catching breaths.

It wasn't as though he was going to have any restorative sleep. It _also_ wasn't as though he was going to let her anywhere near him, if she had that in mind. Fuck, he hoped she wasn't planning on trying. Because he wasn't in the mood to be saintly.

But then he looked over at her, couldn't help himself, saw the way she was hugging her arms to her body.

Walking away from her tomorrow was going to be the hardest damn thing he'd done in a long time.

"You should go," he heard himself say, and then just as she'd pleaded with him, he wasn't too proud to do it either, "—Please."

She nodded, then moved on noiseless feet towards the door.


	10. Home

Abigail went down to breakfast the next morning with no life in her steps, knowing that her lack of sleep the night before was plain in her color-drained skin and tear-swollen eyes. The feeling of dread in her stomach only increased when she saw her father's pleasantly cold face and Billy's determined one, waiting for her.

She murmured a reflexive greeting and sat in the chair her father held for her, noticing that Billy had stood up as he should. This tiny detail only increased her heartache. All of it was so very wrong. Though there was a tempting spread laid out, she could not bring herself to taste a thing, only able to sip tea and inhale its warm moisture. Her father was speaking, but she scarcely heard a word. There were a few monosyllables from Billy in reply. They had, perhaps, already had their discussion prior to her arrival.

She wondered that they could not hear her internal screaming, it seemed loud enough to her to drown everything else out.

"Abigail," her father prompted.

She blinked, aware that the hot cup was growing uncomfortable against her skin.

"You look unwell this morning."

She stared resolutely down the length of the table and managed a small polite smile. She felt his eyes going from her to Billy, back again. "I suppose," she tried her voice, "I've become accustomed to sleeping—in...in less comfort." She had almost been about to say, _on the forest floor_, which would have been a mistake since upon their reunion yesterday she had given out that they had come directly from Nassau, eliminating any mention of their overland journey completely.

"My poor girl," her father replied, and she raised her eyes to him, startled into wondering if it was possible he meant it sarcastically. He took a bite of buttered scone, gazing at her, seemingly with sympathy but she actually couldn't tell.

It came to her that she truly knew very little about the man in whose house she had grown up.

She dared a glance at Billy. Whatever he'd eaten, it was for survival, not enjoyment. He too bore the marks of ill sleep, and his dislike of the situation was—to her at least—palpable.

But they must sit until the governor finished eating, and when he finally did, and stood, they both rose with him. The dread crept from Abigail's stomach to settle around her throat like the grasp of an inexorable hand.

"As you may have surmised," her father addressed Billy, withdrawing a piece of folded parchment from his coat, "I do not keep a great deal of physical wealth in the house. It is impractical and attracts thieves. Therefore, you must take this to my clerk Davies, on Front Street by the harbor. He will be happy to assist you."

He extended the paper.

_Oh please take it_, Abigail prayed, the invisible hand round her neck threatening to cut off air entirely.

"Thanks," Billy said with deliberate, almost offensive casualness. "I didn't bring your daughter back for the money. I don't want it."

The governor's hand did not waver. "You may not want it, but you certainly need it. I have made inquiries. You are, truly, no one. Take this and return to whatever—life you left."

"Father," Abigail breathed, horrified. But perhaps she had not said it loudly enough, for neither man looked at her. There was a long count of five heartbeats. She saw Billy's mouth harden, his jaw clench. For the briefest moment, she could see what she hadn't been able to imagine before: the knife turning from tool to weapon in his hands, turned to her father, plunging into his chest, and that horrified her, too. She let out a gasp, but it hadn't happened.

Billy's hand didn't even stray to his belt. His hands were by his side. Locked into fists, to be certain, but not about to create havoc.

He just nodded, mildly, as if considering. Met Abigail's eyes for one all-too-brief moment. That was it. That was the goodbye. He turned and walked through the doors, which Wilkes scurried to open in advance of him. They heard his boots in the hall, and then the finality of the front door closing.

She wasn't sure which was worse, his leaving, or the way in which her father had sent him off.

Peter Ashe slipped the piece of paper back into his coat, and made a dismissive, incurious sound.

"How could you?" Abigail whispered.

"I beg your pardon, my dear."

"How could you speak to him so?"

"How should I have spoken to him? A man of no import, no connections, no name."

"He is a _human being_." Abigail heard herself almost hiss and was briefly impressed that she had the courage to retort in such a manner.

Her father made a half-turn in her direction. "You claim some knowledge of him that you have not revealed to me?"

She swallowed past the tight hand still around her throat. "I know what he showed me upon our brief acquaintance. I know he showed me respect and kindness! The more, if you care for me, you should have returned to him!"

"For your safe return, I gave him my honest thanks," her father said, his tone darkening. "And with this paper, I was prepared to give him far more than he could possibly have expected. He chose to disregard it."

"And you might have honored him for that choice! Instead you threw it back in his face." Abigail was well aware she had neither business nor practice arguing with her father, but she could not bear to let it be.

"For having shared only a brief shipboard journey, however unchaperoned, you are quite vehement in this fellow's defense," Ashe remarked coldly.

"If I am, it is because I cannot bear the injustice of your behavior, Father!"

"It is _your_ behavior which warrants inspection, Abigail." He took a few quick strides over to her, and she felt herself shrink, not because she feared violence—he had never raised a hand to her before—but because she had never seen such a look of glacial anger on his face. He stopped just in front of her, inspecting her from head to foot, eyes narrowing, evaluating. She pressed her lips together to keep from tears.

"Did you give yourself to that man?"

The distaste of such an unexpected question caused her to gasp in guilty shock. "No!" she managed, putting a hand to her heart.

"Otherwise I find myself hard-pressed to account for such hostility from you." Her father circled her in a particularly unpleasant manner, as if she had suddenly become an enemy he needed to appraise.

"Is that all that matters to you, Father? That I might be—that I might be spoiled?"

"Spoiled indeed you would be. Would you lie to me, child?" He turned and suddenly grabbed her chin, forcing her head up to look at him.

"No, sir," she made herself say.

Though that reply seemed sufficient—his grip loosened—he still said, "True or not, at this point, it would a story be hard to give out and have believed."

She couldn't speak to that. He would think what he would, and so would others. It did not matter to her. With Billy gone, it did not matter.

His gaze softened a fraction, and he dropped his hand from her face. "You have been through a great deal," he said, after a few more moments. "I imagine you will need a little time to recover fully. We can talk again, when you are liable to be clearer about your memories."

For a moment, she wavered, uncertain. Perhaps he was right...

No.

She would never _not_ remember the look on Billy's face when her father had told him he was no one.

It wasn't fair, and it wasn't true. She wouldn't forgive it.

"I know who I am," she said, "and I know who he is. And I believe you treated him abominably. And unless you admit as much, I feel we cannot have further discussions on, or even pertaining to, the matter."

Both proud and fearful, she swept her skirts aside and headed for the door. Wilkes reappeared to see her through.

Up in the safety of her room, behind the bolted door, she sank upon her bed and let the tears come. And come they did, and even in the midst of her sobbing, fully yielding to self-indulgent misery, she was aware that the stranglehold around her neck was finally beginning to dissipate.

* * *

_** three weeks later **_

* * *

Abigail was only vaguely aware of the days passing, since none of them were much different from one to the next. She slept a great deal in spells throughout the day, sat with books she couldn't focus upon, drank plenty of tea and took the minimum of sustenance necessary to maintain the image she was eating at all. She had not yet joined her father for another meal. Instead, trays were brought to her room as before, with ever more tempting delicacies, so it was likely her lack of interest in food had been noted.

She had left her room only once, to wander briefly in the open gated space beyond the house—a pleasant enough place with trees and shrubbery, but it paled in comparison to the wilderness she realized she missed, and she had soon retreated to her room again, more depressed than ever. She sat and looked out her windows, which showed a glimpse of the distant sea. She sent her maid away when the girl came to dress her hair. To what purpose? She was not seeing anyone. Her father had been visited by friends in the interim, but she had declined to join them.

Aware though she was that this state could not continue indefinitely—that sooner or later Lord Ashe would push to have her rejoin society in one way or another—Abigail nevertheless made no particular effort to indicate her readiness.

She tried very hard to put Billy from her mind, but unsuccessfully. Picturing him, somehow, having made it back to Nassau, being somewhere on the sea. Hoping he could think of her without hating her for her father's slights. Reliving his last glance, wondering if it had been regretful, loving, angry—all of those things perhaps.

She could bear thinking of him having returned to his previous life, if he was content—but thinking of him viewing her with distaste or worse, contempt, was too much. It was such thoughts, mainly occurring in the dark hours of the night when there were no distractions, which were responsible for her most difficult moments.

Her father passed on a message, early one day, that she was to join him in company for the evening, and he was quite clear that nothing short of complete illness that laid her to bed would be brooked as an excuse for escaping the engagement. Thus, that afternoon, she gloomily endured Mary's styling of her hair.

"You must know someone currently ill, Mary," she said, only half-jesting. "Bring them to visit me, so that I might contract something."

"Miss, what a terrible notion," Mary chided, shaping curls busily. "As it is, what a miracle you didn't come down with some terrible shipboard plague a month past!"

"They were actually very clean," she murmured distantly. It did feel good, however, having Mary working on her hair, however tiresome the imagined evening would prove to be. She must remember to wash her face, too. She'd been neglecting to do that in the mornings.

"I'm sure I don't know how that could be." Mary pinned a curl to the side of her head, examined it, took it down. "How would you like me to do this, miss?"

"However you think, I do not care in the slightest." Abigail rubbed drearily at her forehead, tired already. Time to sleep, but she would not be able to lie down until after tonight, once this was done.

Mary put down the tongs and came to stand in front of her, fingers tucked together. "I hope I—I hope you don't mind if I tell you something, miss. I don't mean to be impertinent."

Abigail suppressed a yawn. "I'm sure you wouldn't be."

"Perhaps you won't even care to know, but—two days since, near the market, I saw your...I saw that gentleman who brought your home. Your escort," she clarified, when Abigail looked up, certain she'd heard wrong.

"You saw him? How could you be sure?"

"He's devilish tall, miss. Your pardon! I nearly fainted if you recall. Never seen such a man in my life." Her eyes were wide and earnest.

"Mary. You must be quite, _quite_ certain." Abigail reached out and caught her hand, surprising herself with her own grip.

"I have no doubt that it was him."

"Did he see you?"

"I don't believe so, miss. He looked at me, but I don't think he saw me."

_This changes nothing._

_ This changes everything._ Billy, still here, in the same place? Not days' worth of ocean between them?

_Nothing, Abigail!_

"Miss? Did I do right, to tell you?"

Abigail let go of her hand. "Only," she said slowly, "only if you've not breathed a word to another. Most of all my father."

"The _governor_, miss—I dare not speak to him on any matter." Mary widened her eyes, and Abigail remembered that the girl was, after all, barely more than a child, only come into service that very year.

"Then you did well to tell me. Thank you, Mary. You must—you must finish my hair."

She wanted only for Mary to return behind her again and not be able to see her face, and the maid complied, leaving Abigail to stare at the window and consider what this meant.

_Nothing_.

But her heart twisted and tumbled in her chest, regardless.

And when her coiffure was completed and she was left alone, she rose and paced, unable to sit still in the chair any longer. How she longed to escape the house and only—only see for herself. Only find him if she could. What they might say, how little it might yield, that did not enter into her thoughts yet. _ Just to see him_.

She knew herself for a fool, but that did not change how she felt.

Later, greatly distracted, she came down for dinner at the appointed hour and greeted the guests with whatever warmth she could muster, which was not a great deal. There was a young man in attendance, a soldier to whom she'd previously been introduced. Of course her father had invited him tonight, she thought, stricken by the lack of subtlety. She gave him no more encouragement than civility insisted, and though they were seated closely at the table, she could not bear to direct more than a few words his way.

She could feel her father watching her. Surely he wasn't now expecting her to leap into some sort of expedited engagement with this fellow, was he? He couldn't be that crass. But it all felt so orchestrated that she had a hard time even manufacturing a polite response here and there to the young man's otherwise inoffensive overtures. At least Peter Ashe had had the sense to ensure there were several other members to the party, so they weren't forced only to speak with each other.

"We were so happy to hear of your safe recovery, my dear."

She turned her head to the other side. An elderly woman—the man's mother, perhaps? At the moment, her thoughts completely elsewhere, she didn't particularly recall the acquaintance. "Thank you," she replied flatly.

"It must have been such a terrible trial to endure," the lady continued, in sympathetically ringing tones.

"Only at first," Abigail murmured.

"I beg your pardon, dear?"

"Only before I met him."

"Him?"

"The man who rescued me," she said, aware that conversation elsewhere round the table was growing quieter, fading away.

"Oh yes, how fortunate," the other woman said, vaguely.

"It was not a matter of fortune," Abigail said. "It was—" she considered, staring at the shine of the glass in front of her. "Fate?"

"How interesting." Her neighbor's tone suggested a wish to turn the subject to something less weighty. "Robert, did you try that savory pudding...really quite delicious..."

"But perhaps it _was_ fortunate," Abigail said, sliding her chair back, noting her father's clearing of throat.

"Er...how so, my dear?"

"If I had not met him, I might never have seen what it looks like to be free." She was brought back to the memory of the night of stars aboard ship. What had Billy said of it? _It's more like home than anywhere else_.

She could leave this place, this place she'd always thought was home.

"Abigail, sit down," her father said, a warning sharp like a knife's edge.

Was she standing? She must be standing.

"No thank you, Father," she said. How strange it was to have all eyes on her. A sensation she'd spent most of her life being sheltered from, or otherwise successfully avoiding. "I believe I have been sitting for long enough now."

"Dear child, she must be feeling unwell," remarked her neighbor, trying to be helpful, and in fact it was the perfect opportunity to agree, to plead headache or fatigue or some other mysterious non-specific malady, but Abigail could not bring herself to do so.

"No," she said. "I simply don't wish to be here any longer."

An uncommonly long pause, while she met her father's eyes, then dipped her head to the company, and made her way from the room, already hearing the low buzz of explanation, of excuses.

Upstairs in the safety of her bedroom, she slipped the bolt and began to pack, her heart pounding, scarcely knowing what she was doing, but putting things into a satchel regardless, beginning with her mother's jewelry—all she had of value.

She stopped, telling herself sternly, y_ou cannot go anywhere tonight, with curfew. The soldiers would find you and bring you back the moment you stepped into the street. _She must wait until dawn.

Until then—

She sat down at her desk and began to write a letter to her father. Whatever else, he should be under no illusions about what was on her mind. He might, of course, put his own interpretation upon whatever words she left him with, but that could not be her concern.

And if he still did not understand, it would not be because she hadn't told him.

_Father,_

_I have no wish to be disrespectful, but I, having recovered from my "ordeal" and being quite of sound mind, do want to leave you with some final words, so that you cannot be in any doubt as to my intentions._

_Though I have enjoyed the comfort and safety of your house and protection for these many years, I am now an adult woman who seeks to live her own life on her own terms. I realize this may be a highly unusual concept for you to accept—it would have been for me, also, a few weeks ago. Yet in the past month there is much I have learned, and seen, and been forced to re-examine about myself and my beliefs._

_I no longer wish to submit to your authority, nor indeed to the authority of any man you may see fit to partner me with. I prefer instead to rely on my own judgment and make my own decisions for my life._

_I will always be grateful to you for having provided me with the very best education and upbringing. Please consider this my farewell._

_Your daughter,_

_Abigail_


	11. EpilogueThe End

It had just been a few weeks of work, no better or worse than any other, alongside the other dockhands at Charlestown's harbor. To convince them to take him on, Billy had worked the first day for nothing, the second for food and a place to sleep out of the rain (along with the others). After that he'd negotiated a nominal pay with the lead hand, with the understanding he wouldn't be around for long. For that, he put forth the effort of two men, but that didn't matter to him. What _was_ important was that soon he'd have enough to convince someone to let him board a ship heading back to the Bahamas.

In the meantime, it was catching a few hours of sleep on a hard floor between dusk and dawn, hauling barrels and bales and supplies from ship to shore and back again, with the occasional moment in between to wash down a loaf of bread with some watery rum, or sit by the docks with the screech of seagulls overhead, the stench of a busy harbor in the air. Nothing he hadn't done before, endured before.

Indeed, the work was welcome distraction.

He'd seen Abigail often enough in his imagination, so when he spotted her cloaked figure at a distance, speaking to someone who eventually pointed in his direction, he didn't immediately react. More than likely it was merely another girl, looking for another person no doubt just beyond him.

But he turned, and there was no one else, he looked back, and it was absolutely Abigail, making her way to him along the docks.

He swung the barrel off his shoulders and down to his feet. Someone called in irritation, having been waiting for the transfer, but he paid no attention.

They met halfway.

She smiled tremulously. "I thought...I thought you'd be gone."

"Working my way to it," he said, impressed that his tone managed to be level. "What are you doing here?"

"My maid saw you, a few days ago."

This was no particular explanation, so he waited.

She grasped the cloak at her neck against the brisk wind coming off the water. He stepped forward, instinctively, closing the gap between them, sheltering her, gazing down at her face that had less color in it than he wanted to see. A month past now, she should have been looking well and healthy. That she did not, hurt him, and he felt a sudden, perhaps irrational surge of concern bordering on anger. "Is your father starving you? What the hell—?"

"No." She put a white-gloved hand to his chest. "No, I haven't—I just haven't been hungry, truly—it isn't that."

He glanced down at her hand. "I'm dirty," he said. "Covered in tar."

"I don't care," she answered softly. "You didn't say goodbye."

He turned his head and sighed.

"The things he said to you, Billy, they were so awful. I was so angry. And I'm so sorry."

"If you just came to apologize, you needn't have. It's not your fault what he said, or what he thinks."

Her lip trembled, and the statement seemed suddenly more dismissive than he meant, and he wanted to say it differently. Her hand fell away, and he nearly grabbed it back.

"I didn't come _just_ to apologize," she said. "I came to ask a favor."

"Anything," he heard himself say. "Anything I can do."

"But I need to tell you something first," Abigail said, her eyes shiny with tears. "Because it might...make your decision easier. I don't know. I've been looking for you all morning. This is all so much harder than I thought—"

"Jesus. Just talk to me, will you?" It felt like a hand was constricting his heart. If anyone had hurt her he'd fucking—

"I...I left my house. I left it. I won't go back."

This took him by surprise and he could only stare at her momentarily. Then he said slowly, "You told your father that?"

"By way of a letter," she said, drawing in a breath and holding it. "I feared if I told him straight, he would have someone watch the doors—even lock my room. I couldn't risk that."

Billy looked around, half-expecting to see a contingent of soldiers marching in their direction even now.

"So you're here," he said. "Well. What do you need me to do?"

"If you could marry me I would very much appreciate it," she said in a rush.

"_Really,"_ he said slowly, "really marry you?"

"Yes, please. Truly. I don't know how to be a good wife but—"

He had to pull her into his arms, then, no matter how dirty they were. "Pretty sure you'll be about the perfect wife," he muttered, and kissed her. She melted against him, soft and pliable, and his his stomach twisted as he wondered how he'd ever thought he could do all right without her.

"So you will?" she gasped when they finally separated.

"Yes. Now. Whenever."

She smiled though her eyes were still misty.

"One thing." He tossed his head back and stared at the sky in frustration. "I don't have enough to get both of us out of here just yet."

"Oh." She put hands on his forearms. "No...Don't say no, just look..." She produced a small velvet bag from under her cloak, then, glancing about, brought his hand to it. Gems.

"My mother's jewelry," she murmured, hiding the bag again.

"Abigail—"

"I don't want it. They were intended for a different person than I have become." She smiled at him so radiantly that he couldn't, in that moment, think of any good argument against their usage.

"If you're certain," he said finally.

"I am, if you are. About me."

"I have been—" He hesitated. Didn't really want to say love yet, even now, even if he felt it. It was such a big, dangerous word. "I have been certain about you for a long time."

Her lip curved in another, shyer, smile. "Really? Since _how_ long?"

"I don't know, maybe the first time you got the knots right."

She gave a gasp of feigned disbelief.

"All right, or when you drank too much and asked me to kiss you. That night, anyway."

"Kiss me now? Again?"

He complied. Who knew who was watching them out there on the docks. There was too much going on around them anyway. There was just her. There was only her.

Breathless, when they broke away the second time, he said, "What about me?"

"Yes?" She blinked up at him, and he had to focus on clearing his mind enough to form actual thoughts that didn't involve finding a quiet space somewhere with her and—

"Uh, well, when did you know you wanted me to _really _marry you."

"Oh," she said softly. "The first night back in my father's house. I cried until morning."

"Ah," he said, wincing, and wrapped his arms around her shoulders for a gentle hug. "Sorry," he mumbled into her hair.

They rocked together like that for a few moments, in the wind, under the clear sky, the world going on around them.

"Billy," she said, as she withdrew again, her forehead wrinkling in concern, "I mean, he may...my father may still pursue us. But if he does—at least he can't pretend that I have been stolen from him. Does that make enough of a difference to you?"

"I guess it has to. I can't let you go now. I told you I might not be strong enough."

"You are enough of everything for me," she said, and the note of gentle satisfaction in her voice was like a balm on a wound, even if he wasn't sure he completely believed her, yet.

"So," he said, taking a breath. "We have to get out of Charlestown, that's the first thing. I think we should go to Savannah, try to make a start there...Unless there is somewhere else you want to go."

"Savannah is a good place to start," she agreed. "And if there are no ships leaving soon, we could always go back by land, now that we know the way..."

"Now that you know how to tie knots to keep our tent up in the rain," he added.

"And you will have to figure out how to make the tent bigger, since _you_ didn't fit last time," she continued.

"I fit," he said. "You just need to let me get a little closer." He slipped hands underneath her cloak, and leaned in for another kiss, and this time, when they separated, there was definitely some color in her cheeks, and everything was going to be all right.

Taking Abigail's hand, he walked back to land with her.

Another member of the crew whose ship they had been in the middle of unloading, passed them, hailing him—"Where you off to?"

"Home," Billy said. "To find it, or make it. Fair seas to you, friend!"

"And to you and your pretty lass!"

He smiled at Abigail, who was still blushing up at him. _Home._

He did like the sound of that.


End file.
